


The Lateness of the Hour

by lazarus_girl



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:58:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Brittany has much less to lose. She always has."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Up All Night [Santana]

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whyyesitscar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyyesitscar/gifts).



> My take on the story of Brittana from its origins through to series four, told from both Brittany and Santana’s perspective. Roughly follows canon until 4x08 and departs thereafter. Later chapters focus more on season four events. Contains references to the boys Santana and Brittany date, but Brittana remain the focus of the story. A Bram free zone. Inspired by Alex Clare’s album ‘The Lateness of the Hour.’ Written for [@cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com/). Without her beta skills and encouragement, this story wouldn’t have made it past the first chapter.

***

_Sun is up while I'm walkin’ home_  
 _But my head’s up in the clouds_  
 _Trying to get my self to bed_  
 _But I really don’t know how_

***

This _thing_ with Brittany, whatever it is, whatever it means – she doesn’t like to think about that too much, so she ends up thinking about it too much – is getting out of hand. What is it they say; once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, and three times is a pattern? Well, that would make this … a habit.

When she considers it that way, it doesn’t sound particularly healthy, and maybe it’s not. The lengths she’s going to hide the fact they never actually sleep at their sleepovers would put the military to shame, but when she’s faced with Brittany – sweet, kind, ridiculously beautiful; just-stepped-right-out-of-an-Ocean-Pacific-ad kind of beautiful, not the standard high school kind of beautiful – all her resolve, and the fact she’s meant to be Noah Puckerman’s girlfriend, goes out the window.

They have rules now. Rules like, no talking – Brittany’s chatter and questions throw her off. As cute as they are, she doesn’t like distractions, and Brittany asking her questions while they’re making out is _definitely_ distracting. Rules like, no feelings. She likes to convince herself and Brittany that what they do is fine, that it’s perfectly fine for them to hook up at parties, pressed into some dark corner of some dark room. That it doesn’t mean anything. That it will never mean anything. Deep down, she knows, that’s starting to become something more like a lie. A lie she forces herself, and Brittany to swallow. It’s getting more and more difficult to do.

At first, it was just making out, and for a while, that was fine, a little sweetener to take the edge off the day and calm her down. She just likes to mack, mostly because Brittany is so good at it. There’s no stubble or sloppiness, or overeager roughness; it’s just sensual and soft and Brittany just, sort of _knows_ what she wants without asking. Soon, kissing wasn’t enough, and they’d start to fool around, experiment, hands over each other’s mouths to dull the sounds they were making, until she can’t remember her own name and she’s hanging off her once nicely made bed with sticky fingers and some serious looking hickeys for her trouble. It’s always good, _really_ good and it too easily turns into sex – really _good_ sex – the kind of sex that Puck’s incapable of having because he’s lazy and selfish and Brittany is neither and treats her like she’s made of gold, or porcelain, and sometimes she has to close her eyes so she doesn’t see how Brittany looks at her.

There’s one thing they’ve never done though; a line they’ve never crossed, because it feels like it’ll be too much: they’ve never gone down on each other. Brittany’s asked her a bunch of times, and she’s got no doubt that it’d be good, but it’s just a step too far, and well, gay. Gay in the way that Kurt Hummel kid is, and she doesn’t like to think they might be, on some level, similar.

It’s light out, because she left it far too late to leave. She barely has an hour before she has to go back and pick Brittany up again for school. By the time practice rolls around, she’s going to be dead on her feet, but it’s a price she’s willing to pay. On these mornings, she’s taken to wearing gym clothes, so she can pass this off as an early morning run if she gets busted by her mom – which seems to be happening a lot lately. They’re getting careless. Even so, the fact that Coach Sylvester likes them to be in peak condition plays to her advantage. She could run a Navy Seal assault course and not break a sweat now. Running is the only real time she has to think. Though, if she thought about everything that rattles round her head – Brittany Susan Pierce on infinite loop – then she’d run out of road.

She switches tracks on her iPod, and turns up the volume, just to drown out her thoughts a little. The trinity of Adele, Amy, and Alanis always works, but she doesn’t sing along this time, she has an illusion to maintain. She’s been dawdling for the last block or so, distracted, so she picks up speed, pretending they’re running drills. That way, she at least _looks_ like she’s been exercising.

Now school’s back in, they aren’t allowed to have so many sleepovers. Brittany’s parents set down a three maximum, because they don’t want her to fall behind at school now their schedule is really starting to bite. That maximum was smashed three days ago. She’s taken to climbing up to Brittany’s bedroom on the pretext of helping her study and maybe watching a few episodes of _Sweet Valley High_. Study happens – Brittany’s surprisingly attentive when they can stop talking about school and everyone in it – and _Sweet Valley_ happens, but they barely make it past the first disc, because Brittany just gives her this _look_ and then before she realises, what Brittany calls ‘sweet lady kisses’ are happening, and everything else is forgotten.

How they’ve managed to keep this a secret is beyond her. She’s lost count of the times she and Brittany have almost been caught by either of their parents or Brittany’s little sister, jumping away from each other with barely a second to spare, heart up in her throat. Brittany seems to like the teasing and the playfulness when they cross lines they shouldn’t; it turns her on, she’s said as much, and giggling at her and rolling her eyes whenever she looks panicked. It was fun for a while, because it was sort of exciting, creeping around, playing the nice as pie best friend in front of everyone and kissing Brittany for all she’s worth behind their backs. It used to be fun, but now, not so much. Now, it feels dangerous, especially when she’s spotted what looks suspiciously like Brittany’s mom in the kitchen on her way out, as she squeezes through the front door, praying to every saint she can reel off for it not to slam behind her and give her away.

Brittany has much less to lose. She always has.

Usually, she would’ve stayed over and had breakfast with Brittany and her family, but Coach Sylvester has them on this stupid ass cleanse, and she’s never been able to pass up anything Mrs Pierce cooks, least of all pancakes, so that’s a no-no for the sake of her willpower, her waistline, and making it through the day without incurring Coach Sylvester’s wrath. There’s another reason why she forced herself to leave though, and that’s Brittany. Waking up next to her and actually getting out of bed is proving difficult; and sticking to their plan of no strings is getting even harder.

First and foremost, there’s keeping Brittany safe. She’s not bullied because she’s popular, but people treat Brittany differently. She’s not a baby, and totally not as dumb as everyone thinks, but she takes everything to heart. Other girls use her as a target, and the poisonous little bitches they’re fighting against to stay on Coach Sylvester’s squad are jealous because Brittany outshines them at every turn. Boys just think she’s a ditz, and an easy lay, because she’s blonde and pretty, and well, a girl who admits she likes sex and is good at it. Brittany does, and she is. They’re kind of similar that way. If they were boys, they’d be applauded, but because they’re not, they just get slut-shamed instead. She plays to it sometimes, and gives them more ammo, just because it’s easier than letting them see how much it hurts her. She has a limit, but they’ll never know where it is. When it comes to how other people treat Brittany though, she has no filter. If anyone so much as looks at her wrong, they’re dead. She made a promise to Mr Pierce in the parking lot at the end of their first week in freshman year that she’d look after Brittany at school, and she’s determined to keep that promise even if it kills her.

It feels like it might.

Then there’s her class load, which is a lot different to what she anticipated when she finally got her way and her father let her go to McKinley like everyone else she went to middle school with instead of that ridiculous rich-kid academy he wanted her to. Her mom laughed when she said she was taking Spanish, because she can speak it in her sleep, but really, she just wanted a class where she didn’t have to try. Where she could just switch off for an hour, because everything about her school experience thus far is mentally and emotionally exhausting, and they’re barely sophomores. An exhaustion that’s made all the worse because she never dares show it. Her father taught her to be strong and to stand up for herself, because she was a sickly kid – and missed a lot of school because of it – the smallest in their year every year. She’s still waiting to catch up. Being tough, being the one to bitch, to answer back and be snarky is natural now; reflex. What’s not so natural is the fact she’s slowly realising that Brittany is chipping away at that toughness. Brittany makes her weak. Brittany is her weakness.

Cheerios felt like a good idea this time last year, when she was standing on the football field under a cloudless sky, staring down the line at the person she would come to know as Brittany. Nothing makes social climbing easier than cheerleading. As currency goes, you can’t get better, and her father keeps telling her how much colleges like it when people are team players and contribute, so she signed up without really thinking. In the cold light of day, in the depth of an Ohio winter, freezing her ass off doing wind sprints, lungs screaming for air while Coach Sylvester bellows at them to run faster from her spot on the bleachers, she hates herself for signing up. The only good thing about it is she gets to hang out with Brittany, and is always the first to be invited to parties.

Once she stepped on that Cheerios treadmill, a whole load of other baggage came with it. Baggage like Quinn. Quinn _fucking_ Fabray and all the mental strain that comes with consistently trying to one-up her. Quinn is top of the food chain holier than thou, straight As, goody-goody, little miss perfect Prom Queen-in-waiting – and has it easy. Quinn got handed the golden ticket in life somehow, and how she’s lording it over everyone, with her Prince Charming, that stupid asshole Finn Hudson. She’s sure Sea Monkeys have bigger brains, and he seems weirdly obsessed with that Rachel Berry girl (that ridiculous Glee Club of hers is something Brittany keeps bringing up, no matter how many times she shuts it down), but she’s already aware that popularity is _definitely_ not linked to intelligence, even if she does have to be on her toes to outsmart Quinn and maintain a decent rep. Now she’s started this little war, she can’t wave the white flag.

She didn’t have much time get a foothold at McKinley before boys came up. Once Finn was snapped up, everyone else got the leftovers. Puck was just sort of there, and in the end, his persistence wore her down. He’s one of the few guys who has a car she actually doesn’t mind being in the backseat of, and she has a killer fake ID from one of his stoner friends. He’s on a tight leash, because his eyes are everywhere, and like everyone else, he’s obsessed with Quinn – she works that Christian virgin angle, hard. All that aside, it’s an amicable arrangement, as long as they both get some, its no big deal. He lets her make out with Brittany sometimes as long as he can watch, and he wouldn’t do something as stupid as to fall in love with her. Puckerman might not be the sharpest tool in the box, but the boy’s good for a late-night booty call. No strings. No expectations. He doesn’t make her think and he doesn’t make her care. Puck probably knows she doesn’t care, but he also doesn’t care enough about her to be angry or talk about it either, and she’s fine with that.

Puck is the opposite of what it’s like when she’s around Brittany.

She had to do something, to compartmentalise, because she has so much to juggle. It’s getting less and less easy to handle, and she feels like she’s losing control, all assuming she had any to start with. Sometimes, when she’s lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, churning things over, counting down the minutes until she can comfortably go downstairs without raising suspicion – she thinks that she never really stood a chance where Brittany’s concerned. One kiss, that’s all it took, one stupid kiss at one stupid party egged on by Puck and his stupid fucking jock friends, wasted on cheap beer. One kiss got her into this mess, and it _is_ a mess. It’s getting harder to clear her head and force out stupid things like how much she wants to be in Brittany’s bed, how much she wants Brittany. How, maybe, she just might … possibly, have _feelings_ for her. Feelings that go way beyond what two best friends are meant to have, but, they stopped being friends and became something else a long, long time ago.

Once she turns the corner into her street, she really hits her stride. It starts to burn, in her legs and her lungs – she’s gonna have to start cutting back on those sly cigarette breaks before Cheerios with Allison Mackenzie – and even though it hurts, she kind of likes it, because it means she’s really working, that she’s alive. She stalls for time, and does some extra reps on their front steps, knowing there are beady eyes watching her, so she might as well give them all a show. Lycra has benefits, especially when she’s wearing it.

Genuinely out of breath now, she closes the door behind her. Leaning against it, she takes out her earbuds, and listens for any sign that her mom’s already awake: cupboard doors slamming, the coffee machine gurgling into life or _Good Morning America_ on in the background. It’s all there, and she lets out a sigh of relief. Sure enough, there’s her mom, sitting at the breakfast bar, coffee in one hand, client papers in the other, glasses on the table. The morning she comes into a silent house and an empty kitchen will signal that something’s changed irrevocably, the kind of change she’s fighting against within herself.

“You’re up early, mija,” her mom comments, with a smile.

“Felt like a run, that’s all,” she replies, with a shrug.

She goes over to the fridge, and pulls out some orange juice, drinking greedily, cursing herself inwardly for all the sugar she’s downing, and wishing she’d just gone for tap water instead. She’ll pay for it later.

“I hope you’re not working yourself too hard.”

“Stop worrying, Mami,” she says, putting the juice back in the door.

When she turns around, her mom is there, looking at her curiously, inspecting her face while cradling it.

“You look tired.”

It’s not yet seven in the morning, and she’s had less than two hours sleep, so her mom’s probably right for once. She knows what’s coming next by heart. There will be some comment about whether she’s eating, school, Cheerios, Quinn, then ‘that Puck boy’ and lastly, a more heartfelt question about Brittany. She only has a short time to cut it all off at the pass.

It’s dangerous territory she’s ill-equipped to navigate right now.

“I’m fine,” she replies, as earnestly as possible, and hugs her mom for good measure before adding a quieter, “I promise.”

It’s a lie, but not the biggest one she consistently tells. Her mom doesn’t look remotely convinced.

Her mom is still looking her right in the eyes, holding steady. “I know when you’re not telling the truth, Santana,” she nods, pausing for effect before adding, “Mothers always know!” with a smile; sounding eerily like her abuela.

She swallows hard, trying not to look as rattled as she really is, her entire body still, heart pounding hard and unsteady in her chest. Everything feels too close to the surface today. Her mom wouldn’t even have to work hard for her to confess. Though, entirely _what_ she’d confess, she’s not sure.

“First semester always sucks. You know that.”

It’s a poor cover, but her mom seems to take it. She’s never been gladder when her mom’s cell rings, and she’s off, rifling through the pocket of her suit jacket to find it before it kicks over to voicemail.

“Marty! You’re up and around early!”

She knows her mom’s ‘work voice’ well. It’s succinct, powerful, but has just enough familiarity not to sound cold. It’s the same tone she uses for parent teacher conferences. She tunes out as her mom continues to talk, watching her flip through the papers on the bench and imagining Marty in his leather loafers and bespoke designer suit, pacing the office where they work.

Leaning back against the sink, she lets go of a breath she didn’t even know she was holding.

“One second, I just need to finish with Santana.”

Her mom’s attention is back, and she hears a squawk from the phone that sounds a lot like her name.

“Hey Marty!” she calls, sunny and good-natured. He still pretends she’s five instead of almost sixteen. She likes to go along with the charade.

Sometimes she wishes she was, sitting in his too-big desk chair, too small to reach the floor, lollypop in her mouth as she spins, watching her mom talk to clients on the other side of the glass doors in front of her.

“Get a shower before school! And make sure you don’t skip breakfast!”

There’s an added glare and a pointed finger at the last part.

Just to appease her, she reaches for the fruit bowl, picking through what’s there and settling on an apple. While her mom’s distracted, she makes her exit, bounding up the stairs two at a time, eating the apple as she goes, before there’s another ten minutes of them negotiating what’s acceptable and unacceptable for her to eat, and how ridiculous the cleanse routine is.

She’s made it, for another day. By the time her mom gets back tonight, Breadstix take out in hand, she’ll be too tired to question her any further. It should be a relief, she thinks, as she stands, naked, toes flexing on the tiles while she waits for the shower to run warmer, but it’s not. It’s just postponing the inevitable. She wishes that sometimes her mom would press her a little harder, back her into a corner she can’t talk her way out of.

Stepping under the spray, she immediately feels herself relax. Closing her eyes, she shuts out the rest of the world with it.

It’d be nice to get all this off her chest. One day.


	2. Hummingbird [Santana]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“There are certain things she’s just not allowed to do.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For story notes see [Chapter One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/738503/chapters/1374571).

***

_Like a hummingbird in flight you are_  
 _Hovering, hovering near me_  
 _And I need you to fly away, don't fly away_

***

The speed at which she’s just bolted across the quad to position herself outside Brittany’s geography class is kind of embarrassing. If nothing else, Coach Sylvester would be impressed. Now she’s back inside the main building, seen by everyone, she slows down, playing for nonchalant. It’s all an accident, see, she doesn’t do this every single week since they got their new class schedule. She just _happens_ to be casually leaning against the radiator while checking her cell, she’s not waiting for Brittany at all. It’s perfectly normal.

She hates being separated from her, genuinely hates it. This is the only time they’re apart in the entire school week, and the hour or so they’re on opposite sides of the school always crawls along so it feels twice that length. Their schedules this year totally suck. She doesn’t know when exactly, but it went from that annoying ‘oh it’s not fair’ feeling because she missed her best friend – doodling, swapping notes, and concocting texts to arrange parties makes the time go so much quicker – to something deep-seated and heavy that gnaws away at her until she does nothing but watch the clock and count down until she sees her again. She’s becoming dependent, and she used to think that Brittany was the one who fulfilled that role.

It’s perfectly normal that she sped through her geometry quiz, just so she could get a ten minute jump on everyone else because she really wanted to see her best friend in the whole world. She sauntered up to the front of the class, and smacked the test down on Mrs Bletheim’s desk with pride – not a nerdy kind of pride like Quinn or Artie; the smug kind. The kind that says she’s smart, but she doesn’t necessarily want the rest of the world to know it. High school is easier that way. Hiding is easier than telling the truth. The truth makes her an easy target, and leaves her far too vulnerable. She’s feeling that way a lot these days; like her every feeling is writ large across her face, and soon, she’s going to be the star of her very own Afterschool Special.

Mrs Bletheim looked at her suspiciously over the top of her glasses, and then eyed her test. The look she got in return was priceless. Not many teachers at McKinley like her, for one reason or another, but Mrs Bletheim likes her even less, mostly because she’s rude, challenging, ‘academically lazy,’ and Bletheim wouldn’t know fun if it jumped up and bit her on the ass. They just don’t mesh. She’s the girl who talks back, who texts, chews and pops her gum, talks over people and sits with her feet up on the desk in front like she owns the world. She can also, on occasion, if she wants to, score a solid ninety on Bletheim’s impromptu tests. She could’ve aced it, but she always has a mistake allowance that means she keeps under the radar, just so the faculty don’t start taking too much interest in her, and she doesn’t look like a complete geek to everyone else. Intellectualism is Quinn’s thing, not hers, and she kind of lets her have it because it’s the only thing she’s got now – and it looks good enough to keep her GPA steady so her father’s happy. Everyone wins. Truth be told, she likes geometry, because it’s dictated by logic. There’s always the same outcome, governed by the same set of rules. It’s relaxing, compared to the rest of the chaos she has for a life.

She’s got pressure from all sides. Her dad, Coach Sylvester and the Cheerios, and now she’s sort of settled into doing this Glee Club thing properly – not just as Coach’s minion – she’s actually started looking forward to going more recently, and not just because she gets to hang out with Brittany even more and sing. It’s fun, but she’d never admit that to anyone else. Once someone like that poison dwarf Rachel Berry got hold of information like that, it’s game over; social suicide. There are certain things she’s just not allowed to do. It goes against the McKinley way of doing things. There are rules, unwritten, but unbreakable, and she’s getting dangerously close to bending them well past the point of breaking on a regular basis.

Brittany makes her want to turn her back on all the crap and just do as she pleases. Be the person she pleases, but its not that simple. Brittany has it easy, she’s the good cop to her bad; she’s kind, open, honest, and accepting, and doesn’t really buy into the whole social hierarchy bullshit that everyone else is so concerned with. She hates that she has to pull Brittany back sometimes, and rein her in for fear of ridicule. The balance is delicate, she’s always known that, but Quinn’s fall from grace is the living, breathing proof.

It must be freeing, she thinks, catching sight of Brittany at last, laughing at something that goth chick Tina is saying, and Mrs Hagberg is in full-on point and shout mode. Just then, she decides text to Brittany, just because. She hardly ever gets in trouble. One bat of Brittany’s lashes and a well-timed pout, and even that crazy old witch Hagberg will let her off. Unlike her, the teaching staff loves Brittany, even if they don’t exactly understand her. No one else does really. She’s got the Cliffs Notes to what makes Brittany tick, and no one else is sneaking a look.

_You. Me. Lima Bean? The cafeteria sucks. S._

The Lima Bean is expensive; almost always busy, those preppy boys from Dalton in their flashy uniforms always steal the comfy seats, and they chew up most of their lunch period because the line is so long, but she doesn’t care. It beats standing in line walking past food she can’t have, being forced to sit with people she doesn’t particularly like or want to get to know. It also means she gets Brittany’s undivided attention, and it’s just them. They pick away at salads, and sip on juice – Coach would tear them a new one if they looked at anything with dairy content – while they bitch about everyone and everything at McKinley, sitting next to each other, pressed up too close for comfort sometimes, because all but one of those comfy chairs are occupied, and she’s left wishing away the fact the second they touch, her skin prickles and she forgets to breathe.

She watches as Brittany looks down, surreptitiously checking her phone under the desk. There’s the barest hint of a smile on her face, and she can’t help but think how pretty it is, even though she really shouldn’t be thinking things like that at all. She shakes her head, forcing herself to snap out of it. Her own cell vibrates in her hand a few seconds later.

_Of course! It’s my favourite. B xx_

Forcing herself not to smile as widely as she wants to, she thinks about what to reply when another message comes in.

_You’re my favourite too._

She looks at the screen for a ridiculously long time, not sure how to reply or even if she should, but then she realises that if she can see Brittany, then Brittany can see her, so she’s screwed. She’s also suddenly very acutely aware that she’s being watched, and. Her cheeks burn telltale, and she hates it. She hates that Brittany makes her feel so torn. Part of her wants to collapse into a puddle over how adorable she is, and the other part wants to turn on her heels and run away because of that same adorableness.

It’s stupid that she has to think of what to write Brittany now, because suddenly, her conscience is starting to interfere, saying that things she used to type out and send without thinking are suddenly ‘too much’ or ‘too little,’ so she just ends up pretending her battery’s dead or she’s out of credit.

_You’re too sweet, Britt-Britt. If I have to be anyone’s favourite, I’m glad it’s you. You’re the cutest._

She tries to keep it casual, thumb hovering over the ‘x’ unsure whether to add any like Brittany did. Affection comes so easy to Brittany. She’s almost jealous.

Just then, the bell rings, and it’s like divine invention. She deletes her reply and pockets her phone in her Cheerios jacket. Brittany will never know the message existed. It’s better that way.

The few stragglers in the hall are replaced by a swarm of people spilling out from different rooms, pushing her closer to the radiator. For a second, she loses sight of Brittany in the crush, and she isn’t sure where to go; a little _too_ relieved when she sees a flash of red and finds Brittany once more.

“Hi!” Brittany bounds up to her, all smiles.

Tina passes and gives a little wave. She gives a barely there nod of her head in acknowledgement. There are too many people. Too many eyes looking and judging, for her to do anything else. She feels a weird pang of guilt, because she knows Brittany will be disappointed in her.

“Hey B,” she smiles, just enough. “How was class?”

“Boring without you,” Brittany shrugs. “Like always. How was yours?”

She forces herself not to say the first thing that comes into her head; something like: ‘I really missed you and I have to stop drawing hearts in the margins of my notes because everyone on the planet will know that I can’t stop thinking about you, and I think I’m going crazy.’ It’s beyond the point of confusing. Feeling this way is really starting to hurt. Every time she passes Kurt, she wonders if he sees the same sad, tortured look in her eyes as she sees in his. Things are beginning to slot together in her mind, pieces fitting that she’d rather not, and she doesn’t like it one bit.

“Same old shit. I mean, when are we ever going to use geometry anyway?”

“Fish tanks?” Brittany replies, confident, as they set off down the hall.

“What?!”

It takes a few seconds for her Brittany switch to throw itself after being out of her company, so she’s a little lost.

“So you fill them right. So the fishes have enough water, but that’s physics too I guess.”

She can’t help the smile that spreads across her face at that. Brittany’s so matter-of-fact and unshakable about everything.

“Of course,” she nods, and Brittany beams. It’s the kind of smile that makes her eyes light up. Brittany’s beautiful, so very beautiful, and sometimes she wishes she could tell her that. All they ever get to hear is stupid boys calling them hot and smacking their asses or feeling them up whenever the mood strikes.

“I wanna switch classes,” Brittany announces, swinging the folder she’s carrying wildly as they push their way past some freshmen.

They’re staring at Brittany like she’s from Mars, and she won’t stand for it. Swiftly, she turns back, throwing them her patented glare until they shuffle away, fearful.

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t like being by myself.”

She tries for comforting when she asks, “You talk to Tina though, right?” but it comes out like she’s fishing for information instead.

“Tina’s not you,” Brittany replies, simply, like the very idea she’d need someone else is ridiculous. “Mrs Hagberg is no fun. I wanted to talk about the cats in Egypt but she wanted to talk about Global Warming instead.”

“Oh B,” she shakes her head, fighting a smile, because all the gesticulating Mrs Hagberg was doing suddenly makes sense.

They get stuck in a bottle neck by the exit doors, and then the guy in front of them – some football player who hasn’t even started this season; benched for so long he has splinters in his ass – winks at Brittany, who blushes in reply. She has a sudden urge to knock his block off, despite the fact he’s twice her size. She’s about to go and pummel him when something stops her. Brittany’s hand brushes hers, linking their pinky fingers, and she’s holding the door open, just for her. Chivalry is alive and kicking.

“You look really pretty today, San,” Brittany whispers, right in her ear before slipping past her and pulling her forward into the parking lot, practically skipping, so she’s forced to keep up.

Maybe she’s just been ‘keeping up’ all along. Brittany always feels twenty steps ahead of her and two steps too close to her all at the same time. She’s scared that one day, she won’t be fast enough, and Brittany will get so far away, she won’t be able to see her anymore.

“Can we do sweet lady kisses now?” Brittany asks, all-too loudly.

It feels like her whole body is on fire and the entire school is laser focussed on the back of her head. She can feel the weight.

She’s rarely speechless, but she honestly doesn’t know what to say. She’s angry and terrified and tempted all at once. They’re heading into a place she really doesn’t want to go, not here, not now. Brittany has that look in her eye, that faint hint of mischief that says she really wants to step it up a notch. The kind of notch that involves them across the backseat of her brand new Lexus and steaming up the windows, spending the break making out, with her hand in Brittany’s panties, instead of going anywhere else. It’s a guilt present from her father, buying her silence so she won’t broadcast his latest indiscretion with his PA that she happened to walk in on. It still has new car smell.

These feelings she has, this closeness she craves – desperately, sometimes – will be her undoing. She tries not to be so drawn, to actively seek her out, but it’s not easy. It’s not easy because half of her wants to get so far away from Brittany that they never see each other again, and the other half – the half that’s winning more and more – wants Brittany as close as they can physically be and never let her go. Ever. The constant tug-of-war between those two extremes is starting to wear her down. They’ve always come as a package deal, but now she’s questioning what exactly that package contains. It used to be something she could push down and dismiss with the help of a few cheap cups of beer and some mack time with Puck, but that’s really not working so well lately. Every time they fool around, once her eyes close and her mind drifts, he suddenly becomes Brittany instead and everything goes into high gear. It always ends in sex where she comes harder than she ever would with Puck alone.

“Jesus Britt!” she manages at last, yanking Brittany away from any potential eavesdroppers, pushing her a little too roughly against the side of the science block. Brittany frowns at her, a flicker of pain crossing her features. She regrets it immediately. “We talked about this. We can’t do sweet lady kisses at school. It’s special. It’s secret. No one else can know.”

“But,” Brittany begins, quietly, looking down at her pristine white sneakers. “I want to, so, so bad, San. You looked so sad all on your own, and I wanted to make you feel better.”

“I know,” she replies in the soft soothing voice that only Brittany gets to hear. “But not … now, OK? In little while.”

Brittany’s giving her the full on puppy eyes; bottom lip trembling ever so slightly as she nods sadly. Something in her snaps. She can’t help herself. She can’t help that she reaches up and brushes Brittany’s face with the back of her hand because she looks so broken and upset.

For once, they’re mirror images of each other.

Tears are welling in Brittany’s eyes, and she feels sick. They’ve had little blow-ups like this before, when Brittany pushes her too far too fast, but they’re hurting Brittany more than they used to, she knows it. They’re hurting her more too.

Brittany’s folder clatters to the ground and she’s pulling her close.

“Britt-Britt,” she breathes, barely loud enough for Brittany to hear, fearful of who might be listening, “don’t.”

And yet, she’s moving too, tilting her head, lips perilously close to Brittany’s.

“Just let me. Please?”

Brittany sounds so pained all of a sudden, that she can’t refuse her.

The moment their lips touch the relief is instant. It feels like every fibre of her relaxes. She sighs into Brittany’s mouth, realising how much she’s missed this, and how much she aches for more.

She pretends that doesn’t mean anything. She has to pretend, because anything other than pretending is dangerous. Not pretending would mean that this thing she won’t dare name in her head or say out loud is real. As real as the pressure of Brittany’s lips brushing against hers; so deliciously soft and always so very, very careful, like she’s terrified of breaking her.

Brittany’s already broken her, long ago, and she’s still trying to figure out if she can ever fit the pieces back the way they’re meant to ever again.


	3. I Love You [Santana]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Brittany holds all cards, but for a while, she had the deck in her hands too.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For story notes see [Chapter One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/738503/chapters/1374571).

***

_When I'm laying in my bed_  
 _I can say what's on my mind_  
 _Let my actions be my words_  
 _I'm sure that you heard_  
 _I love you, I love you_

***

She’ll regret tonight in a few hours when she’s on the football field, when she’s so tired that her limbs feel like lead and she wants to die or have the ground open up and swallow her whole – whichever is less painful – but she can’t seem to get herself to move. She can’t bear to disentangle her limbs from Brittany’s and leave. There’s scant space between them, and every time Brittany takes a breath, she feels it on her skin. It’s not the first time she’s laid here, just looking at Brittany like this, eyes drifting over her and cataloguing every tiny detail for safekeeping: the way her hair spills across the pillow; how her eyelashes flutter when she’s sleeping; every beauty mark, freckle, and scar that peppers her soft, beautiful, perfect, skin. But, it feels like tonight might be the last time, and maybe that’s why she can’t bring herself to leave. She can’t leave because she knows full well how much it will hurt Brittany to wake up alone, but, really, it’s more than that. It’s so much more than that.

Love. Pure and simple. Pure and not at all simple.

Somewhere along the line, she, Santana Maribel Lopez – daddy’s girl, part-time rich bitch, all round smartass, badass, boy chaser, certified sexy as hell, and queen of no strings sex – has fallen in love. She’s fallen in love with the one person she absolutely, positively _can’t_ fall in love with: her best friend in the entire world. She’s in love with Brittany Susan Pierce.

Tears sting at the back of her eyes as the realisation hits her. She doesn’t dare say it out loud, even though she knows Brittany wouldn’t be remotely surprised. In fact, it’s probably the best thing Brittany could ever hear, even though the stuff – she can’t bring herself to think of it any other way – with Wheels is still very much on. It made her feel smug and proud that Brittany still needed her. That they’d still cuddle watch _Sweet Valley High_ and get their mack on before that massively cheesy theme has even ended. Now, it makes her feel kind of used and cheap, even though she knows Brittany doesn’t see her like that at all. She wants the cuddle time and the mack time, but she wants all that other stuff that Wheels gets too.

The worst thing about this whole situation is she knows how deep this goes. She’s not stupid; if she could, she’d shake this off like all the other crushes she’s had that lasted five seconds – like Joey Caminetti in middle school, who goes to Dalton now and actually turned out to be the gayest boy to ever _breathe_ – because something about them wasn’t quite right or, the bloom came off the rose some other way. Brittany’s always been right. Crazy beautiful, sweet, innocent, and just a little mischievous, she’s perfect. She’s perfect for her, and she can’t shake it. Daren’t shake it, because the thought alone is making it hard to breathe.

If she’s not careful, it’s going to swallow her whole.

This is big and real, and she can’t keep denying her feelings any more. It’s not love in the ridiculous teenage, puppy love way like Berry, Finnocence and every other lame ass at their school; it’s the kind of full-on _Notebook_ , _Titanic_ , sonnets and love songs, bone deep, soul deep kind of love. The kind that’s real and lasts and she’s always secretly craved but never thought she’d have the faintest hope of realising. Except, she can. It’s Brittany, lying right next to her, holding her close even now. Everything she’s ever wanted is within her reach and all she wants to do is push it away, because if it hurts now, it’ll hurt even more when she has Brittany and loses her anyway.

It was so much easer, when it was just making out and fooling around and she didn’t have to think and she didn’t really care – no, that’s not true, she’s _always_ cared about Brittany on some level – but, when she didn’t start attaching feelings and meaning and shit she really, really doesn’t want to deal with. The kind of shit that keeps her awake at night, just like this. She’d go back if she could, because it was kind of golden, then. It was all about getting each other off. Quick and rough, because she was usually so wound up.

Anger and bitterness drove her early on: anger at Coach Sylvester, Quinn, Puck, her father, and almost every person at McKinley waiting in the wings to stab her in the back. First, they just touched each other with the barrier of clothes in between for friction, because that’s all she’d allow. Of course, she needed more, and Brittany’s always wanted to give it, so it’s kind of inevitable they’ve progressed. The scissoring was fun, and easy, and Brittany’s really open minded, so it didn’t feel like a huge leap; mostly because they could go at it half clothed, so it didn’t really feel like actual sex. Even so, she’d still feel better than going through the charade of sex with Puck. Brittany’s always known exactly how to touch her, where, and how fast. The curl of her fingers reach places that Puck or any other boy for that matter, can only dream of.

Now, it’s gotten to a different stage. It’s not just sleeping over with some really hot – _really_ fucking hot – action in the middle anymore. They’ve gotten to the kind of place where it’s still really hot, but that hotness is stretched out for hours instead of a quick thirty minute session that’s so a part of their routine it’s like brushing her teeth or breathing. It’s the kind of hot where they get fully naked, and it’s the opposite of that quick roughness that used to work for them. It’s sweet, and slow and soft and Brittany looks at her like she’s the most precious thing on the planet and she almost feels like crying, but somehow manages not to.

She’s always liked sex – even though saying that as a girl is frowned upon and makes her sound like a slut – because it’s fun, and assuming you’re doing it right or you’re with the right person, it feels good, but she’s never really bought into the whole ‘making love’ thing. It sounds ridiculous and flowery and adult, like something dreamt up by writers and people who make movies to make sex bigger than it is, but she gets what it means now. She understands the difference. Brittany is the difference. These _fucking_ feelings are the difference, and she can’t turn them off, and she sure as hell can’t express them, because words just get her into an unholy mess, so she has to find another outlet for them.

The outlet arrives whenever she ends up kissing Brittany, lingering and deep. Whenever those kisses snake down Brittany’s neck, tongue laving attention, or her teeth nip at Brittany’s collarbone. Whenever her lips wrap full around Brittany’s each of Brittany’s nipples in turn, and suck until they’re taut. Whenever she’s as close to Brittany as she can physically get, whispering in her ear, leading her close to, but not quite over the edge; her fingers pressing, buried deep, waiting for the very second Brittany’s moan hits a different pitch, and that delicious tension she sees in every twitch of Brittany’s beautiful, perfect body unwinds right in front of her, like magic.

She’s sure that Brittany hears ‘I love you.’ She’s surer still that Brittany tastes it on her tongue whenever they kiss; rich and bittersweet.

Brittany got that tonight. She got all those I love yous, but she got something else too.  
They crossed a line. Well, the line was already kind of blurred and a lot messed up, because the actual crossing happened a long, _long_ time ago, but it was definitely a big moment. Without any real pause for thought, she went down on Brittany, she broke that last, cast iron rule, and _that_ can’t be downplayed, no matter how she might try. For once, she just didn’t stop when she was closer to kissing Brittany’s hips than her stomach. She could blame her emotions or blame it on the fact they haven’t done much more than make out and cop a feel for over a week, but really, all she can blame is herself. Brittany had gotten her to a point she never thought possible. Her guard was down, and she was in this weird, relaxed state of bliss. All the slowness and the sweet nothings in her ear and Brittany’s gentle, gentle touch, unravelling her completely, wilfully, instead of driving her insane, just made it feel entirely natural for her to do. Suddenly, she wanted to do it so bad she couldn’t think of doing anything else. She wouldn’t admit to it out loud, not even to Brittany, but she was nervous. It’s so far out of what they’ve done in the past, so far from what she knows, and there were stupid questions in head like, ‘when does she breathe?’ and ‘what if I do it wrong?’ and ‘what if I hurt her?’ If it were anyone else but Brittany, she would’ve bolted there and then.

All she could do for a few moments was keep her hands flat on Brittany’s hips and stall, hoping that Brittany couldn’t feel how much she was shaking. The only thing she had to go on was what she’d liked on the rare occasions Puck had actually listened to her and got it right. So, with one last steadying breath, she slowly spread Brittany’s legs, drinking in the sight of her. Then, she kissed along the inside of Brittany’s thighs in turn – soft, so soft, but she could feel the strength and the tone too – as she worked closer toward what Brittany had craved for so long with torturous slowness; for her sake as much as Brittany’s.

She thinks she’ll always remember the sound of Brittany’s breath unexpectedly hitching the second she pressed her mouth along already slick skin, and the new husky way Brittany said her name, drawing it out to twice its length as she began to skim and suck experimentally at Brittany’s clit. As soon as she took it into her mouth, laving her tongue against it, Brittany’s moans hit a very particular, delicious pitch and she couldn’t keep still. Then, there were hands suddenly, one at the back of her head, fingers threading deep into her hair, pulling slightly and urging her deeper and boosting her confidence with a low, needy, “Yes honey, right there. _Please_ don’t stop,” while the other laced with her own fingers, squeezing tight.

It hit her quite suddenly why Brittany was so into the idea of them doing this: control. Brittany was totally at her mercy, she could do what the hell she wanted. She could give in to that pleading or ignore it entirely. It all made sense. She didn’t have it in her to deny Brittany, of course, that requires a sort of strength she’ll never possess and Brittany has in spades, so she just worked that little bit harder, taking it as an incentive, listening to every sound, every delicious groan, the odd curse word and every shallow staccato breath as they fell from Brittany’s mouth.

She knows she’ll never forget how Brittany felt: hot, slick, and unbelievably sexy, hips moving in time with her strokes, breath growing uneven; or how she tasted, just like her skin, but indescribably different and so completely Brittany and so, so incredibly good that it just made her suck harder and lap faster. She wanted to give, and give, and give, instead of take, take, take, in a way she’s never wanted to for anyone but Brittany. She didn’t dare glance up, feeling Brittany’s eyes trained on her all the while. The ‘I love you’ was right there on the tip of her tongue, waiting to be said the moment Brittany’s entire body tensed, hips rising try and meet her, hearing her name fall from Brittany’s lips over and over, so many times that it didn’t sound like her name at all. She slowed, barely touching until they were both entirely still and all she could hear was her heart beating ridiculously fast in her chest, utterly overwhelmed by the knowledge that she’d never get closer to Brittany than in that moment.

Then, she did look up, cautious, taking in Brittany, flushed and breathless, eyes dark and gazing right back down at her, a devilish smile creeping across her face as she said, “Sweetie, you’re really good at that,” beckoning her back upwards with a crooked finger. It felt weird to kiss afterwards, knowing that Brittany could taste herself, but then it didn’t matter much, Brittany wouldn’t stop kissing her and telling her how good it made her feel and how she’d never come that hard with a boy, ever. For once, she felt strong and powerful wrapped Brittany’s arms as they fell asleep, instead of utterly dismantled and weak, as she so often does.

Brittany holds all cards, but for a while, she had the deck in her hands too.

On reflection, maybe it shouldn’t have happened, because it meant giving another piece of herself away to Brittany, and Brittany has so many pieces that she’ll soon come to the point where she has nothing left of herself, but that feels kind of inevitable now.

Since the duet debacle – oh how she’d sing that damn Melissa Etheridge song now if it meant she gets to keep Brittany – and the fact that Brittany and Wheels are official even thinking that makes her feel a little sick) she’s tried not to push things, because Brittany’s kind and loyal, so she’s taken a lot more coaxing if she’s wanted anything more than cuddle time. She felt a little guilty, initially, because well, Wheels has a lot of shit to deal with, and even she’s not _that_ heartless, not really, but it faded, fast. Brittany couldn’t give up their post Cheerios and post Glee time anymore than she could.

She honestly hadn’t planned on them doing anything at all, but it just sort of happened. It began innocently enough, with her having dinner at Brittany’s because both her parents were out of town, and Brittany’s mom took pity on her. Despite her protests, she got talked in to staying. The second Brittany started playing footsie with her under the table – half innocent, half not so – she knew this wasn’t _just_ going to be dinner. After that, came ice cream, MTV, and helping Brittany with her algebra homework, and it all seemed to calm down a little. That was, until she decided to wipe the remnants of ice cream from the corner of Brittany’s mouth with her finger and Brittany took it in and sucked on it instead. Before she realised it, she was pinned down to the bed, Brittany murmuring how much she missed her sweet lady kisses. Then, she found herself arching up, pressing her lips hard against Brittany’s with embarrassing desperation, pulling at the hem of Brittany’s sweatshirt and dragging it off her before either of them said another word. Deep down, she knows she should’ve resisted, because she’s giving Brittany mixed signals, but she’s always done that to some degree. She just wanted, no, needed, to have her, because it felt like it might be the last time.

Now, as she blinks back tears, easing herself out from Brittany’s grasp, shuddering against the cold as she turns back to look at her, it _does_ feel like the last time. It needs to stop, she needs to decide, one way or the other. She has to tell Brittany the truth and be together properly, or find a way to deal with keeping it a secret, and never be anything more than friends again. All or nothing. She can’t stand living in the in-between. It’s not fair to anyone, and it’s destroying her from the inside out.

Brittany should be able to see the damage by now. From the way that she looks at her sometimes, eyes full of concern, the start of a question forming on her lips, it’s possible that she can.

If Brittany woke up now, she could pretend she was going to the bathroom, and slip back in to bed a few minutes later, and forget she ever wanted to leave at all, but that’s no good,. If she stayed, a few hours from now, be kissed awake, and they’d probably have sex again, either before they get up and take a shower or while they take that shower together. Sometimes both happens, and they still have that telltale post-sex glow when they’re sitting at the breakfast table with Brittany’s family like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. For a few brief seconds, she genuinely considers it, because Brittany’s the only person she can’t say no to, but all it’s doing is postponing the inevitable. It can’t last. They can’t maintain this and expect to be OK. No matter how much she wants them to be. Something has to give.

She can’t deal with all these feelings and all the questions she knows Brittany’s going to have once she wakes up. It’s easy in Brittany’s world, to say I love you and mean it, to imagine a world where it’s completely OK to walk down the hall hand-in-hand with another girl and go on dates and be together, but she just can’t fathom it. She can’t imagine how the Santana the rest of the world sees and the one Brittany sees are ever going to happily co-exist. It’s an either-or situation, not both. She can’t be the loving, kind girl that Brittany adores, not if she wants to get through a day without ending up in a dumpster or with a face full of slushie. If she’s Brittany’s Santana instead of cool, calculating, snarky, bitchy Santana, she gets respect and she doesn’t get her heart broken.

Once she lets Brittany’s Santana out, everyone will know the truth and know her every weakness with it. It leaves her too open, too vulnerable, with a massive target painted on her back. She’s seen what happens to weak people, to people like Kurt, abused day after day. There’s no way she could take all the talking, the staring. Nowhere would be safe. Kurt’s much stronger than she is.

She feels terrible creeping around in the dark like this; tensing at every tiny noise she makes while she searches for her clothes, trying not to bump into anything. The red bra and panties that are Brittany’s favourite, an old band t-shirt, and super tight jeans that make her ass look amazing, are all thrown back on, and she’s zipping up her boots before she can change her mind. A familiar feeling settles in her stomach: guilt and regret, swirling and acidic as she tries and fails not to remember how it felt when Brittany’s hands were tugging them off instead, just hours before.

Before she realises, she has Brittany’s sweatshirt half on, and she sighs, cursing herself for how easily she’s picked up habits that are infinitely harder to break. She loves wearing Brittany’s clothes, especially when the heat from her body still lingers in the fabric. The material’s cold now, and even though there’s only the faintest trace of Brittany’s perfume, she stands there, holding on to it for far too long. With a sigh, she lets it drop to the floor, snatching up her jacket off Brittany’s desk chair instead, flinching when her car keys jangle in the pocket.

She knows she shouldn’t, but she can’t resist looking at Brittany one more time, reaching over and pulling the covers that bit higher, making sure she’s warm enough. Her heart leaps to her throat when Brittany rolls over in her sleep, murmuring something that sounds suspiciously like her name, before burrowing into the exact spot she should be. It breaks her heart, but she knows Brittany’s will hurt much more later on, waking up alone.

Dropping to her knees, she brushes the hair out of Brittany’s eyes. Careful not to wake her, she presses a kiss to Brittany’s cheek, dangerously close to the corner of her mouth. It feels final. She screws her eyes closed, fists clenching, willing herself to wait until she’s outside before even _thinks_ of crying.

“I love you, Britt-Britt,” she says, barely above whisper.

Tears come again, and she bites back a sob.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever loved,” she admits, with a heavy sigh. “I wish I didn’t love you so much … I wish I didn’t hurt you so much.”

She waits altogether too long at Brittany’s bedside, just looking at her, wondering if she’ll get any kind of answer, even if she half knows what it might be. When she finally finds the strength to leave, slipping out of Brittany’s front door as she has done so many times before, she knows that no answer will be good enough, because there’s no right one, and there’s no final one either.


	4. Treading Water [Santana]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“What good is loving someone if you can’t be in love with them?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For story notes see [Chapter One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/738503/chapters/1374571).
> 
> Chapters from Brittany’s perspective will appear beginning with Chapter 5. The writing of the story was guided by the lyrical content of the songs, and I went with the character I thought fit them best to tell a particular part of Brittany and Santana’s journey. It just so happens that the song selection/order chosen for the story as a whole means there are blocks of their perspective shown in consecutive chapters rather than ones which alternate between them (something which I wanted to do, but couldn’t make work).

***

_My heart just sank the moment I ... saw you_  
 _You’re the image of a girl, that I used to know_  
 _Don’t be alarmed if it seems hard, for me to explain_  
 _But every detail of your face, makes me recall the name_

***

_“Please say you love me back?”_

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

The second she turned her back on Brittany, she ran straight into the girls’ bathroom and threw up. It was all too much. She couldn’t see for tears, she couldn’t think, she couldn’t breathe, and she couldn’t contain it all. The shock, the pain, the massive crash from the adrenaline surging through her body, heart beating out of her chest, and for what? Nothing. It got her nowhere.

She feels even worse than she did before, and she didn’t think it was possible.

Most of the mistakes she’s ever made, she can blame on being drunk or plain old peer pressure, but this one? This solid gold slice of stupidity? Oh, it’s all on her and she was stone cold sober, so she’s only got herself to blame. The worst thing is that she imagined what might happen, and she tried to mentally prepare for it. She wasn’t prepared. It hurt like a bitch – like Brittany really _had_ broken her heart in two – a week later, it still hurts like a bitch. It cuts bone deep, and no one can see it. To everyone else, she’s just the snarky, slutty little cheerleader who doesn’t care about anyone or anything but herself. How dare she have feelings? How dare she express them in the hope they’ll be returned?

Lying awake in the middle of the night, overtired and miserable, her eyes puffy and red from crying, it felt like a good idea. It felt like the only way to rid herself of the weight she’s been carrying – that’s been crushing her from the inside out – for so long. She prays at night, like the good Catholic girl she’s supposed to be. She used to pray for the feelings she had for Brittany to disappear into nothingness. Then, she prayed for those feelings to be transferred to someone else – anyone but Brittany – just to lessen the guilt. After a while, the guilt didn’t matter anymore; something shifted, and she started to pray for Brittany to love her back instead.

If it was anyone else, she’d just get over it by going to a party, getting monumentally wasted and hooking up with the next hottie that paid her the slightest bit of attention. It’s worked before. Hell, she’d even give Puck another go around if her heart was in it. God knows his rep is shot, so there’s nothing in it for her in the way of social point scoring. It’s not anyone else, it’s Brittany, and her heart isn’t in it, because it belongs to someone else. It always has, she knows that know.

All this startling clarity is coming to her way too late. Brittany’s still ahead of her, she knew this was coming. She’s not fucking delusional, she _knows_ Brittany feels the same way. The only way she could’ve made it more obvious is if she had a flashing fucking neon sign above her head saying ‘I Love Santana Lopez.’

Brittany still has that sign above her head, but it flickers and flashes and only she can see it.

Maybe if she’d got it wrong, and she’d totally misread it, and Brittany didn’t feel the same way all this time, she could deal with it – her reaction was the very definition of letting someone down gently, in its own way – because God, she’s not that conceited, no matter what people think. Just because you’re in love with someone, doesn’t mean they’re obligated to love you back. But Brittany does love her, and that’s the problem. Right now, it just feels like she doesn’t love her enough, and that’s worse than not being loved at all.

It’s always been there between them. Through all denials, the lying, running hot and cold and generally treating her like crap, Brittany’s always treated her the same, no matter what she did. Well, it seems she’s finally got a taste of her own medicine, and she doesn’t like it one bit. It feels like Brittany ripped her heart out of her chest, tore it up and put the pieces back in and expected them to work just like before. Except, it can’t, because it’s just a bloody pulp and the only person who can fix it is the person who did it in the first place.

She’s at this disgusting, pathetic point – a low, really, it can only be described as a low – where she’s actually sorry for saying what she did to Brittany. They haven’t cut off contact completely, she still sees her, they still talk, but it’s not the same. Going from being with her all the time, living in each other’s pockets to practically nothing at all is killing her. Part of her wants to beg and plead with Brittany to change her mind or pull off some ridiculous scheme to win her back – not that she’s even hers to win right now – but a bigger part of her feels this need to apologise, to take it back. It wasn’t exactly fair. From the outside, if she was Rachel or Tina or someone like that, what she did wouldn’t come off as romantic, it’d come off as incredibly selfish. Principles and morals and all that crap. All she did was throw all these feelings at Brittany – these big, heavy, real feelings – and expect her to drop everything and bend to her will when she was least able to. It was a futile gesture really, no matter if it took her all day to work up the courage to deliver it. They were doomed from the start.

What good is loving someone if you can’t be in love with them? It’s just a waste.

See, she fell into that age-old trap of believing what the movies tell you. In every romantic comedy ever, when the hero goes and confesses love to the heroine, they love them back and there’s that sweeping string music or some shitty overplayed pop song and they make out until the credits roll. Nowhere in any of those movies did the heroine say ‘I love you,’ but reject them anyway. Damn Brittany and her loyalty to Wheels and his feelings. What about her feelings? Where the fuck is her Hollywood ending?

People are starting to notice that they aren’t joined at the hip anymore. They’re looking at her weird, and asking questions and she doesn’t know how to answer. No one really pushes her though, no one really sits down and asks, and it kind of hurts, because it just reinforces that Brittany really was the only one who actually cares about her beyond the surface high school bullshit that makes people play nice.

When Brittany does come up, in any form – even the mere mention of her name in conversation is enough to make her start – it’s a reminder of what she’s lost. No, of what she gave away. Worse still, it’s a reminder of what Artie has, quite literally, in his lap. She can’t look at Brittany now without seeing him, and it’s driving her nuts. If one more fucking Cheerio or anyone in Glee dares to ask her where Brittany is, she’s going to stab them to death. The jail time would be worth it. Maybe some distance between her and Brittany – a state or two – would be good, maybe the hurt would hurt less. Maybe.

It feels like Brittany’s everywhere. In the space between her breaths, her heart beats, underneath her skin, right down in her bones and she can’t get her out. Brittany’s permanent. There’s no escape. No amount of scrubbing will make her clean again.

Glee used to be a place where she could let loose and just forget she gave a fuck about what anyone or what they thought for an hour, but now, it’s just an extension of everywhere else. Mr Schue’s all about lessons and feelings and _sharing_ , and she doesn’t trust any of these gossiping little nerds with anything she has going on. What’s she supposed to do, out herself with a jazzy little spin on some fucking K.D. Lang or maybe that damn Melissa Etheridge song Brittany wanted her to sing? Yeah, that’ll go down great. Everything will be all hugs, smiles, sunshine and rainbows until word gets around and then it’ll be pure hell and social suicide into the bargain.

That’s what makes this so hard, people usually tell this kind of stuff to their friends. A problem shared and all that _Oprah_ bullshit, but the only friend she can trust with something as big as this is Brittany, so that’s kind of out the window. Quinn’s got too much of her own shit going on and she doesn’t know if Quinn might go all Christian goody-goody on her and flip out. Telling anyone else means telling the truth about how she feels about Brittany, and she can’t. It’s all bound up together and she can’t untangle it. She can’t bring herself to say it out loud. Once you say it out loud, it’s real and you can’t take it back. She’ll be dead in the water just like Lady Hummel. Brittany is her weakness. Weaknesses can be turned into a weapon in ten seconds flat. Then she’ll be the one getting called names, being tossed into dumpsters and surviving daily slushies to the face. The nightmares she wakes up from in a cold sweat will be real.

God, she misses Brittany, _really_ misses her. She misses the sex, sure, because well, she’s human. Brittany’s damn good at it, and just _knows_ her, and she’s got needs and getting herself off in the shower _really_ isn’t cutting it for her anymore. It’s not just that, though, if it were just that, it’d be so much simpler, but she had to go and complicate things by having feelings and falling in love. Yes. She loves Brittany, she’s _in_ love with her. Hopelessly. Completely.

She misses the intimacy, the closeness and the completeness she felt whenever they were together. All the little things: the sneaky glances, smiles, in-jokes, pinky links, cuddle time; all of it. Every tiny thing. She just really misses her best friend, and there’s this Brittany shaped space in her life that she has to deal with and doesn’t know how. She’s dependent, somehow, and she doesn’t know how it happened. People always think it’s Brittany who follows her round like a lost puppy, that she’s the one who needs protecting and helping, but the truth is, it’s always been the other way around.

She’s a mess, and she knows it. Existing rather than living. She’s not eating, not sleeping, and she can’t seem to make herself care about school, even though her father will tear her a new one come report card time. Then, there’s all this, anger, and rage and frustration inside of her and she feels like she’s steeped in it; thick and heavy as molasses and she can’t release any of it. It can’t go on for much longer. She’s already sweet-talked her way out of detention with Miss Castle after that smartass Zises decided to push her buttons. Well, White Rhino started on the wrong bitch this week, because without Brittany around to talk her down, she’s got absolutely no filter and no restraint when people are testing her patience. The bitch started it, but played innocent, and it just riled her up even more. She was sorely tempted to knock Zises’ block off, but given that Lauren’s over twice her size, she probably would’ve got flattened. Maybe she owes Crazy Castle one. At least she didn’t have to endure seeing the disappointment in Brittany’s eyes. She’s seen it far too often lately.

Even though Brittany’s less than two-feet away with Wheels, head on his shoulder, smiling at Rachel while she belts out some Barbra Streisand number, it feels like miles. Looking at them makes her sick. It really does. She’s jealous, insanely fucking jealous, but she’s angry too, because looking at them is looking at everything she wants, but can’t have, all within touching distance. She’s on dangerous ground, the – shakiest of ground – contemplating waging war on a kid in a wheelchair, but he’s being so smug and showing her off all the time that it’s making her reconsider. She hates how easily she’s been replaced in Brittany’s life. She hates thinking of him at Brittany’s house, hanging out with them; sitting at the Pierces kitchen table eating dinner in the seat they all know is hers. Then, her mind runs riot, imagining him and Brittany kissing, and touching and _fucking_ her and she just can’t take it. She wants to explode. He’s like the cat that got the cream and the prize fucking canary all at once, and she wants to slap him silly, but all the bullshit she’d get in return from Mr Schue, the earache from Figgins, and the shitstorm it’d unleash at home aren’t worth it.

She wants to scream and yell and show the world how much she’s hurting, but she can’t, because she’s not allowed to. That’s what people in love do. She’s can’t be in love with Brittany. Not now. Not ever.

Just when Rachel hits a high note, pitch perfect, and the lyrics that have been washing over her for the three minutes hit her square in the chest, things that feel suspiciously like tears are threatening to spring up, someone knocks the door. Her head snaps right, tearing her eyes from the tiles on the ceiling, and Rachel looks supremely pissed at being interrupted when Mr Schue holds his hand up for her to stop. The whole room takes in a breath, and she’s sure she heard a screech of “Excuse me, Mr Schuester?!” at dolphin range pitch even though Rachel never opened her mouth.

There, in the doorway, standing awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and eyeing them all cautiously because he’s late, is Sam Evans, in all his bleach-blond, blue-eyed, floppy-haired, hard-abbed glory, and it’s like a gift from God.

“Sorry I’m late guys, I had to, erm, go and see Miss Pillsbury about something,” he offers, apologetic, and she can practically hear the choirs of angels singing.

Even Rachel dials down her rage.

“You’re here now, don’t worry,” Mr Schue reassures, motioning for him to sit down.

“But you have missed my performance, which is rather a shame,” Rachel reasons, and he looks down at his shoes.

“Can it, Berry. Just finish the damn song!”

The second she speaks – because she hasn’t since she stormed in from Cheerios, cursing Coach Sylvester for making her do extra laps around the gym – everyone turns to look at her like she just grew another head.

“Why don’t you take it from the last verse?” Mr Schue suggests, more helpfully, throwing her the closest he can get to a death glare before nodding to Brad to start back up.

Sam’s indecisive, because he hasn’t quite figured out their politics yet – even this Land of the Misfits has fucking hierarchy and cliques – so he keeps looking between them all and the empty chairs, trying to figure out where he should sit like it’s a huge life-defining thing. He’s new still, so he doesn’t know all the gossip yet, and people are still trying to figure him out, so for all they know, he could’ve been the king of his old school. Everyone likes mystery. From what she’s seen, he seems kind and sort of sweet. Oh, and he actually has manners, which, around here is a vast improvement on the slobbering horndogs she has the misfortune to go to school with.

Yes, he’s the perfect substitute. He’s exactly what she needs – an acceptable-to-date boy version of Brittany. How in the hell did she not see it before? He’s been sitting next to her for weeks now, singing along with his little poppy puppet guitar boy thing going on that Quinn fell for after two seconds. It makes him certified A grade boyfriend material. OK, so he’s Fabray’s sloppy seconds, and usually that would make him off-limits, but whatever, these are desperate times, if she can’t keep the guy, Quinn’s loss is her gain. She beckons him over with a tilt of her head, patting the seat next to her. He smiles, obviously relieved, looking like it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done.

Maybe someone listened to her prayers after all.


	5. Tight Rope [Brittany]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Her heart belongs to Santana. Whenever Santana hurts, she hurts.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For story notes see [Chapter One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/738503/chapters/1374571).

***

_No matter what may come of it_  
 _You know there's more to life_  
 _I'm sure that you'll survive_  
 _You know what you have to do_  
 _Tight rope walker, tight rope walker_

***

She and Santana have to talk, because they clearly can’t go on as they are – mostly because they aren’t _going_ anywhere at all. It’s hard when you want to talk about difficult stuff, because she usually goes to Santana for things like that, but she can’t because Santana is the difficult thing she wants to talk about.

They’re not really good at talking about what their … relationship means. Mostly because Santana doesn’t like calling it a relationship, but calling it a ‘thing’ or a ‘hook-up’ doesn’t seem right either. Talking means Santana has to think about her feelings and try and put them all into words. That’s really hard for her unless she’s singing a song and borrowing someone else’s sadness to talk about her own, like when she listens to music on her iPod while they study in the library, and sings along to Patsy Cline or Billie Holliday really softly. The last time Santana tried to talk about it on her own, it blew up in her face, spectacularly, so she understands why Santana’s so reluctant, but it needs to happen. She has to try again.

What is it they say? Clear the air. Yes, they need to do that, and fast. The air between her and Santana is so thick, she can’t see where the hell she’s going. It’s like fog, but worse, because fog doesn’t make her chest hurt or make her want to throw up because there are too many thoughts in her head and feelings in her body and she doesn’t know what to do about any of them.

Well, she knows what to do right now, she’s going right towards Santana’s locker. She has this planned out. It feels like the right moment to talk, mostly because they only have a few days before she goes on summer vacation with her family and then all this _stuff_ will just be lingering in her mind for weeks and those weeks will be enough for Santana to back off again, and they’ll be in exactly the same place as before. To make this happen, she had to practically run from Mrs Dosenberry’s class to make sure she’d get there before someone else got in the way and talked to Santana first, like Mercedes or Rachel, pleading for forgiveness _again_ after the whole New York mess, but it’s worth it.

For a while, she thought New York would be the place for them to talk about all of this, because people behave differently in new places. Santana knows New York better than all of them – even Rachel and Kurt – because she has family from there, and she’s spent summers with them when she was little, before Santana’s parents got divorced and everything changed. Santana’s the only one who knew where restaurants were and how the subway worked. She was proud of her, because she didn’t lose patience with them once, and people were starting to see how kind and helpful she is. Then Nationals happened and it all unravelled. In the end, New York wasn’t different to Lima. Even though Santana was happier, she wasn’t freer. She still couldn’t be herself. Just like always, Santana’s kisses would come out of nowhere, fierce and desperate; snatched moments in the middle of the night pressed against the bathroom door when the others were asleep.

They never talked about it afterward. They never do.

It used to be easier to switch between having nothing and something with Santana, to pretend like all friends kissed and touched like they do, but it’s not anymore. It can’t be, because it feels big and special and different ever since they talked with Miss Holiday. Sometimes she wishes Miss Holiday were still here, because she’s the only teacher apart from Mr Schue that Santana actually liked. Miss Holiday would help them through this weird fog, because she has a way of seeing the world really, really clearly that makes hard stuff simple. Maybe that happens when you get in the real world and leave high school behind. Maybe that’s why Santana’s so desperate to leave McKinley and Lima, because she wants that clear world too.

She gets distracted when she’s faced with Santana. As soon as she looks into those deep brown eyes, she’s gone. Game over. All the good ideas she has about telling her she has to stop hiding and be honest, and that she’ll support her no matter what, because she loves her – really, truly, not just like puppy love her mom is always talking about. This time it’ll be different, she has it all prepared in her mind and she’s determined she’s going to say everything, no matter what. She’s not going to get distracted and she won’t let Santana interrupt her or correct her when she makes mistakes. She’s just going to deliver this like a speech, a President Pierce speech, except; she doesn’t need Santana to help her write it or make those cute little flashcards so she has something to prompt her in case she loses her way. She knows all the words by heart this time, because that’s where they’re coming from. She loves Santana a little too much, and that’s the problem.

It’s _always_ been the problem. It means she forgives Santana for everything, no matter how much it hurts.

Everyone says Santana is the smart one, and she's the dumb one. Well, here's the truth, Santana does really dumb things sometimes too. Dumb things like getting a boob job or dating Dave Karofsky.

She still hasn’t forgiven her for the boob job, and she might not ever, because there was nothing wrong with how Santana looked to begin with. She was just beautiful and perfect and now she has scars and regrets, and nothing she can do will help her get rid of either. Her dad says it was a cry for help. If that’s true, then Santana’s been crying for a really long time, and she can only soothe so much. It should’ve never happened, Dr Lopez should’ve stopped it instead of being the one to sign the consent form and do the operation. She prayed for it not to happen, even though she doesn’t pray like Quinn does, and she still ended up sitting in Santana’s room with the curtains closed, fetching her water and painkillers because she could barely move.

A lot of things that shouldn’t happen to Santana turn out happening to her. Lately, it’s been her fault.

She made a mistake. Artie was the right choice for her head, for morals, for doing and being good – her parents tell her that she should do the right thing – but not for her heart, not really. Her heart belongs to Santana. Whenever Santana hurts, she hurts. The pain doubles back on itself and it makes her chest feel really heavy and she’s got no idea how to make it feel less like that, except for if Santana could just be that tiny bit braver, and be the girl she sees all the time hidden away underneath. She can’t stand it much longer.

To fall in love, you have to take that first step; you have to let yourself fall. Santana’s so close to that, standing on the edge of that great thing; that huge leap. All she has to do is trust. All she has to do is trust herself, and let go of everything she thinks is important but really isn’t – like being popular, staying Head Cheerio or making her father happy even if it makes her completely miserable. She could take Santana’s hand and lead her all the way there; cling to her while she descends, but it’s not the same. This has to be done her own way and on her own terms. So much gets taken away from Santana without her asking and it’s not fair. She’s not about to add to the list of people who have forced her into things she doesn’t want to do. It’s getting harder and harder not to do that, because Santana’s making things really complicated and confusing when they don’t need to be.

If only she’d realise that.

The answer is easy. It’s always been easy when it comes to Santana. She’s always known, somehow, that she’s in love with her. It’s not like she’s seen in movies, when the boy or the girl suddenly realises and it’s like a bolt of lightning in their brain, and it wasn’t gradual either, like a light when you play with the dimmer switch. She just knew. Loving Santana is natural, like breathing; like crying at something sad or laughing at something that’s funny. It’s just what she’s supposed to do.

Falling in love with her was easy; it’s loving her that’s not easy. It’s not easy because she denies herself happiness. They don’t see the world in the same way, she knows that, Santana sees all the dark things and the sad things, and sometimes forgets about the light things and the happy things until she reminds her about them. It’s cruel, really, that Santana’s like that, because she has the prettiest smile ever. She likes making her smile. It happens a lot when they’re alone together, watching _Sweet Valley High_ doing each others make up and trying on clothes or playing _Dance Central_ , but her favourite thing to do is make her smile like that when they’re in public. That happens less often, because she’s always so guarded, but when it does, when Santana’s mask slips a little bit – and she’s Santana instead of Snix – it’s like a gift, the best gift ever, because everyone else gets to see it too. They get to see that she’s not just that bitchy slut of a Cheerio who everyone is afraid of. Sometimes Santana forgets she’s more than that too, so she likes to remind her of it, often.

They feel really, really close to _something_. It’s scary and exciting and amazing all at once because it’s close enough to touch almost. It feels risky and dangerous – Santana’s always felt a little like that to her. They could be real girlfriends and everyone would know and it wouldn’t be a secret anymore. She would be proud and Santana would be proud and everyone in Glee Club would be proud. It’s nice, when she thinks about it that way, instead of the people who won’t be proud, like all the jocks who are mean to Kurt or Santana’s family. Santana only thinks about the not proud people, and it’s destroying her, slowly but surely.

It’s destroying them both slowly but surely.

Santana’s not the only one who cries herself to sleep and skips dinner. All the movies and the love songs say that love is a good thing, a happy thing. Well, that’s not always right. They lie sometimes. They lie because it really hurts, and not in that nice way like the country songs her mom sings to when she’s in the kitchen. It hurts like it hurts when she listens to Adele and Amy on repeat, sitting cross-legged on the floor in Santana’s room for hours, only bigger and more, and there should be blood or something because the wounds feel big enough.

Of all boys Santana’s strung along – because it’s all been a really big game, like 3D chess, but only Santana knows the rules and she won’t tell her them – from Finn, to Puck, and then Sam, Karofsky hurts the most somehow. Santana’s free to do what she wants, she’s made that clear, but it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. It was so quick, and so obviously fake. Santana couldn’t possibly have had feelings for him. She knows the difference. She’s seen the difference. She’s _felt_ the difference. The worst thing about it wasn’t that she chose Karofsky – maybe it was, a little bit – but that she didn’t talk to her about it. She felt excluded from Santana’s life, really and truly for the first time. They always talk to each other about things, even if it’s stupid things like boys they should date and what it all means, but seeing her in the choir room with Karofsky out of the blue like that was like having her heart trampled on twice over. Dave is rude, and mean and huge, and he could crush Santana if he wanted, but there’s something not right, something just felt _off_ about it all and it’s driving her nuts. He didn’t deserve her. He didn’t even know her. Now she knows what Santana meant when she called Artie a ‘stupid boy.’ Karofsky is even worse.

It’s revenge, she knows, but Santana’s cruel and cold towards other people, never to her. Her Santana is sweet, soft, and delicate. So delicate that Santana has to wrap herself in all this armour for protection, to stop people seeing it. She’s the only one allowed to chip away at it and get inside. She’s always seen it as a good thing, because what’s bad about loving someone?

Deep down, she knows Santana only does it because she’s scared. She’s always known what Santana’s been scared of. It’s not the ordinary way, like how people are scared of spiders, the dark or heights, because Santana’s already scared of those (even if she’d _never_ admit it to anyone else). Santana’s scared of bigger things that are truly terrifying, like people finding how that she really likes girls, that she’s in love with one, and that the girl is her best friend.

That’s not the thing Santana’s most afraid of though. Love is high on the list, but nothing beats how scared she is of herself and her feelings. She’s seen the terror in her face every time stand in the bathroom next to each other to fix their hair and their make-up. Any time she glances across, she sees the most beautiful girl in the world, but she’s pretty sure that Santana sees a monster instead. She’ll make her see the truth if it kills her. Right now, today, in this very second, it feels like it might.

She hates that Santana has to hide so much of herself away. Santana looks like a whole girl when she’s walking around, she’s really only half a girl, because the good things, the beautiful things – like how smart and kind and brave she really is, and how much love there is in her heart – are all buried in a really dark place that no one can reach. She sees glimpses, little flashes of gold, but she’s terrified that if she doesn’t help Santana, that the gold will disappear and all that will be left is anger and bitterness, and the girl she loves so very much will disappear too.

Since Karofsky happened, she’s not been allowed to step in when Santana fights with the other Cheerios or Lauren Zises, or when she talks back to Coach Sylvester, because they’re in this weird limbo of not really being _anything_ at all to each other – not friends, but not enemies either – so it doesn’t feel right, but with no one to hold her back and calm her down, Santana’s in a mess and can’t seem to stay out of trouble. The other Cheerios are starting to talk, and Mrs Bletheim was talking about her in the teacher’s lounge with Principal Figgins too, she overheard them. Santana’s been getting sent out of class a lot lately, to his office. Right up until Nationals, she saw her sitting outside, waiting to be called in, staring at her with the saddest eyes she’s ever seen. It’s bad. The kind of bad that would make Dr Lopez take her out of school and send her somewhere else like he’s always threatened to. Santana always says he’d never go through with it, but she’s not so sure anymore.

The meltdown in New York wasn’t really about them losing – OK it was a little bit, because they worked really hard and Rachel and Finn just screwed it up over a silly kiss – it was about everyone and everything else that hurts her. It needed to happen. Santana needed that release. Even though it was horrible, and she couldn’t comfort her properly, because Santana wouldn’t let her, and wouldn’t even look at her until they were on the plane flying back (they held hands under the blanket, and the second their fingers touched, she felt like crying).

All that wasn’t so much a cry for help, but a scream. A scream she could feel all the way to her bones. Only she heard the true sound. Everyone else heard yelling and a string of Spanish curse words.

It would be easy to turn her back and walk away because Santana’s so stubborn and refuses to open up and give herself entirely, but she can’t do it. She can’t leave her. She’s tied to Santana, even though people can’t see the thread. Maybe it’s like one of those red threads that she read about in one of her dad’s books once. She likes the idea of that. Santana’s favourite colour is red after all. It’s like being blood brothers, but better, and she doesn’t want to even imagine a world where Santana’s not in her life. Maybe Santana’s not ready to be her girlfriend for real yet – it still feels lots of steps away from where she is – she wants them to be friends again, because it she can’t stand not being. Not having Santana on her right side is like not having a limb. There’s just this _space_ she should occupy. The absence of her is as real as she is, and she can’t stand it.

So, here they are at their lockers again, talking but not talking in that way that Santana likes to do so much. Santana’s looking at her cautious and careful, as if she’ll break into a thousand pieces the second either of them speaks. She’s cautious and careful back, because Santana still looks so fragile, so close to shattering into the same number of shards right in front of her. She’ll wait and she’ll stand by Santana’s side through all of it, until she’s strong enough, no matter what she says or what anyone else says. They don’t know the truth. They don’t know who she really is. They don’t know what they are to each other. No one doe

_I love you Santana. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone else in this world._

Her words have to be enough for now. She’s never meant anything more in her life. Santana knows it too. She hears it in the content sigh Santana breathes out when they hug in the near empty hallway. She feels it in the way Santana hugs back, tighter than she ever has, like she’s terrified someone will take her away at any second, and they’ll never get to hug again.

Whatever happens, she’ll always be there for Santana, and she’s always hopeful that Santana will find a way to love herself as much as she loves her – if that’s possible, because there’s not a measure for it, and now Santana knows that now. It’s not just words; it’s real, solid and unchangeable. Even if she has to tell Santana that every day of the summer that’s yet to unfurl before her before she gets it, before she truly believes it down to her bones, she doesn’t care. Her Grandma Pierce says that precious things are worth fighting for.

Santana is precious. Santana is worth fighting for, and she’s going to give it everything she has. No matter the cost.


	6. When Doves Cry [Brittany]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“She loves Santana. That’s it. Why’s that hard for the rest of the world to deal with?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For story notes see [Chapter One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/738503/chapters/1374571).

***

_Touch if you will my stomach_  
 _Feel how it trembles inside_  
 _You've got the butterflies all tied up_  
 _Don't make me chase you_  
 _Even doves have pride_

***

Everything feels better when she dances. Everything feels solid and safe. Most people find dance hard, because they try to make it about logic. It’s not about logic; it’s about emotion and freedom. When she gets confused about things, about people – mostly Santana – she dances to work it out. She dances to say all the things she can’t. Santana hasn’t watched her for a long time, but she still dances for her regardless.

She’s dancing now, dancing it out in the auditorium – there’s more space than the choir room, and she won’t get hassled by Coach Sylvester – instead of being in Mr Ferris’ English class. It’s too hot in here really, the lights are too bright, bearing down on her too heavy, but now she’s started, she can’t seem to stop. She can’t stop. Her music today is a playlist Santana made for her, stuck on repeat. It’s bass heavy, perfect to dance to. The volume is so loud in her earbuds that she can feel it vibrating in her chest. Even so, it’s still not loud enough to drown out her thoughts and her worries. Soon, it’s entirely possible she’ll send herself deaf and she won’t notice, because the white noise of those things will still be there.

It usually only takes half an hour or so before she’s back to feeling like her old self, happy and calm. Ready for the world and longing to see Santana again. Half an hour was hours ago. She’s skipped French, and History too. It doesn’t matter, because she’s failing anyway. Everything. Only she, Lord Tubbington, and Peter Pan know the truth – her last report card is hidden between chapters eleven and twelve – and she’s too far behind for it to make a difference if she could somehow catch up. She doesn’t want to go to Miss Pillsbury or ask Quinn, and she definitely can’t go to Santana at the moment, not least because their schedules are pretty much completely different this year, and there’s been so much going on. It’s horrible. They’ve always helped each other. Santana just explains it perfectly, and everything snaps into place like it never does when they’re in class. Without her, she’s lost. They rarely have any time together apart from lunch, Cheerios, and Troubletones rehearsal.

Miss Corcoran is a million times better than Mr Schue right now, because they get listened to instead of talked or ignored. She gets to dance a solo whenever she wants, and they’re allowed to do their own choreography, and actually listens to what they have to say. It’s so much better with all girls. Sugar’s awesome fun, and the other Cheerios she and Santana brought with them are fast learners, so there’s no waiting around for people who really have no sense of rhythm like Finn. She’s hoping that maybe Santana will be OK about dancing with her in front of everyone else, instead of just in their bedrooms. The best part though, is that Mercedes and Santana sing all the time like they’ve always wanted.

Singing is the only thing outside of being together that’s making Santana happy. She misses seeing her smile.

Dance is her only comfort at the moment; the only thing that never really changes. There’s a certain technique; steps become familiar over time. Practice makes perfect. Even when it does change, she has control over it, because she’s the one making the changes happen. That doesn’t usually get to be something she has any say in. Dance though, dance has steps, and there’s a technique you have to learn. It’s all about control. You practice and practice to get better and keep hold of that control, even when it’s really hard. No matter how much she practices, Santana is forever giving her new steps to learn. She used to be able to pick up the changes quickly, but it’s not so easy anymore, and it never feels perfect enough.

She just needed a place where she didn’t feel so lost, where she could hide for a while, and try and get things together in her mind. She’s losing a grip on things. Where she fits, where Santana fits, and where they fit in the world together. Miss Pillsbury always talks about life choices, taking the right path and forks in the road. She’s at a fork in the road right now; stuck, and the path she’s been going down for a long time feels really dark and twisty and she doesn’t like it at all. She doesn’t like it because it seems like her path and Santana’s paths aren’t the same anymore. All this talk about graduation and college is making it worse, because there’s no way they can stay together. She can already feel the tension in her bones. She already knows where her body will get torn when they get separated, and she clings on, desperate for it not to happen.

The future is scary. She’s not ready for it yet. For now, she has to focus on the present, before it slips away from her completely.

There are a few things she knows for definite: Santana is her girlfriend. Santana is _actually_ her girlfriend. Not just a friend who’s a girl, but her real girlfriend. Officially. They go on dates and buy each other little presents. Officially. Her parents know. Officially. Santana’s working towards telling her own. Officially. It’s progress. It’s so much more than the faltering baby steps she’s helped Santana to take all this time. She should be happy; she’s gotten everything she ever wanted.

Except, she’s not happy, at least, not as happy as she thought she would be. It’s still really confusing. Maybe things becoming real with Santana are what ruined it. They’re ruining it because they gave it a label. A label that feels much bigger than it should to her. A label that seems to mean things to people that don’t mean anything to her at all; like football jocks, old ladies at the country club where Dr Lopez plays golf, frat boys on the bus. People are looking and whispering and it’s just love, and it shouldn’t matter at all that she’s a girl and Santana’s a girl, because it just _is_. She loves Santana. That’s it. Why’s that so hard for the rest of the world to deal with?

Sometimes – seconds maybe – she thinks it was a mistake to be official, because the second she says the word ‘girlfriend’ people blink twice and tilt their head in such a way that makes her entire body tense, and it puts Santana on edge for the rest of the day. On days like that, it feels like if she so much as breathed on Santana she’d shatter right before her eyes, because she’s so fragile and brittle. There are good things, there are nice things, and she has to remind herself of that sometimes. Things like the way Santana sneaks up to her locker, and looks at her in this soft, special way that says ‘if no one was here, I’d kiss you forever.’ Things like holding hands in the hallway and in Glee Club and knowing it’s not like the ordinary way girls hold hands sometimes. It makes her feel safe and steady, like pinky links used to, but it’s more than that now, it’s about being connected to Santana always.

Now that Santana’s stepped out of her own shadow, hiding less and less of herself, she thought it would be easy. Everyone would fall in love with her too. The dorky, smart, witty girl she adores would just come into bloom – her mom always used to say that about her, that one day, she’d realise everything she needed was right in front of her; that she’d come into bloom. It was and she has.

Santana’s blooming hasn’t been the same as hers.

She thought the bitchy, mean, and manipulative side of Santana would fade because it was all tangled and confused with the fear she has about her feelings and the love she didn’t want to fall into. Well, now, they’re in that love, deep in it, like the deepest end of the Lima Community Pool, swimming as close to bottom as they can get without hitting the tiles, and that fear is mostly gone. Santana’s fear is mostly gone. Except, she still glimpses that other side of Santana break the surface every once in a while. It unsettles her, because it’s something she can’t fix with kind words and long, slow sweet lady kisses. It’s something that’s in Santana, part of her, still. Maybe always.

Santana’s pretty much a perfect person in her mind, but she’s still a person. People do crazy things and make mistakes – like Rory and the leprechaun wishes – because people aren’t robots and no one has the controls. She just has to accept her for who she is. Even if she doesn’t like all of her sometimes, she does love all of her. Santana’s never asked to change, to stop being herself, so she’s not going to either. Everything Santana does is out of love and loyalty. Love makes you do things you can’t explain, just so you can keep that love and stop your heart form breaking.

Santana’s just as afraid of losing her as she is of losing Santana.

There are a lot of things she doesn’t say to her now. Things that she can’t say because they’ll hurt her, upset her or make her angry (or all three). She’s started to do exactly what she told Santana not to; she’s started to hide things from her. In some way, she betrays what they have every day. Mostly she hides her anger and frustration. Sometimes, she gets frustrated and angry at Santana, because she’s so stubborn and ties herself in knots trying to please everyone but herself. That anger doesn’t come to the surface often, but sometimes it bubbles over and she hates it. Lately, she’s been angry at other people, like Finn, Dr Lopez, the jocks, and the Country Club ladies. She wants to kick and punch and scream at the top of her lungs, because she’s just tired, so _tired_ of it all. It’s not right and it’s not fair. Her anger is tainting everything she sees. The pressure is all too much. Her mom has started to notice when she snaps or lashes out at home.

She’s not a violent person, her dad says it doesn’t solve anything at all, but she thinks it might this time. They deserve to hurt for what they’ve done. They deserve to hurt for how much pain they’re making her feel inside. She doesn’t hit them though. Instead she just does pirouettes, focussed on the same spot until it feels like the room might blow up or she gets dizzy – usually she just gets dizzy, disappointed when her body hasn’t unwound entirely. She loses focus a lot easier than she used to. It’s harder to let things drift out of her mind so it’s clear and clean. Images keep coming back to her. Bad ones, and she has to force herself to remember the good ones.

Good ones like last night. She can still feel Santana everywhere. Kisses. Fingertips on her skin, ghosting down her stomach. The memory of it is burned in, and she traces the same path Santana took now, just to calm herself, and see if there are really any traces of her left behind. They don’t do hickeys anymore, because that was more about Santana getting revenge and possessing her, proving a point than anything else. Now, Santana’s careful, loving and delicate with her, as if afraid she’ll break. She can still taste Santana too; never wanting it to disappear. Ever. There’s not really a way to describe it, but it’s so much better than she ever imagined. Like butterscotch, kind of, but not. Salty, sweet, and so deliciously Santana, and definitely worth all that waiting. Patience really _is_ a virtue.

They never planned to end up as they did. Santana half hanging off the edge of the bed, hips arched toward her, rising to meet her mouth. Things always begin innocently, but rarely stay that way. Santana brings out the devil in her. She traced the shape of Santana’s mouth with her fingertips, watching her dark, heavy-lidded eyes as she tasted herself on them, and the idea sparked in her mind. She’s always wanted more from Santana – but there will never be a point where she can say it’s enough – coaxed her toward things, with kisses of gentle persuasion, and soft whispers. “Let me taste you, it’ll be so good. You’ll feel so good. I promise.” The whispers did their magic. With a slow nod, Santana finally let her cross the last, and the blurriest of lines. She’s never seen Santana look so beautiful. She’s never heard a more beautiful sound than the staccato breaths and the husky broken Spanish that escaped as she delved deeper, sweeping her tongue across hot, wet, skin; settling years worth of want and adoration right there on Santana’s clit; hands stroking up Santana’s thighs, anchoring her, knowing that Santana’s own twisted in the sheets that barely covered them.

The night ended with wrapped up in each other, sweaty and breathless, a tangle of limbs, Santana kissing her until the sun streaked through her bedroom window. She tries to keep that moment in her mind, frozen and perfect, because that’s all that matters in the end. When they’re alone together, everything is perfect. It’s an island and no one can visit and she never wants to leave. Beyond the door of their bedrooms, nothing matters. Everything is stripped away.

Waking up with her this morning was perfect. Truly. They don’t get perfect all that often.

All too quickly, her brain kicks into a different gear, and the bad images are back: slushie attacks, Cheerios practice derailing into full on fights when someone pushes Santana too far and she loses her temper, Finn blurting out what he did in the hallway in horrifying slow-motion, Santana in tears. That one sticks. Even if the clothes and the locations change, the tears and the reason behind them are the same. She can’t stand to see Santana cry, and she’s seen too much of that recently. There have been too many afternoons locked in the last stall of the girls bathroom, holding each other, listening to Santana sob until she threw up, just wanting to protect her from everyone and everything. What Finn did and all that came after still stings. It stings in a way that should leave a mark somewhere everyone can see. She can’t stand to look at him, so she’s glad – really glad they’ve left Glee for the moment – because he just doesn’t understand them, he doesn’t know Santana like she does and even if he told her, he’d never understand, because most of it is in things you can’t put into words.

If only they could run. Like Romeo and Juliet – or Juliet and Juliet – but no one dies and no one fights. They’d just make a new life, a life of their own together in a new city where no one knew them at all, and even when they did they didn’t care that they loved each other or what any of it meant. There, Santana wouldn’t be the gay bitchy Cheerio, and she wouldn’t be the stupid slutty bi-curious Cheerio either, but they’d still be just as hopelessly in love with each other.

She’s imagined what that future might look like, when she’s awake at night, worrying about Santana, checking her phone for calls or texts – and when she’s at her lowest ebb, old photographs, scrolling through until she finds one where Santana is smiling. They’ll live in New York, and she’ll dance and Santana will sing and they’ll have their own apartment with a cat or a dog – maybe both. They’ll get married, a huge white wedding like in the magazines her aunt Lindsay reads all the time at the hair salon. Kurt will design their dresses, Quinn will take the photos and Rachel will sing the first song they dance to. She’s wanted to dance with Santana forever. It’d be close, and slow, a waltz, because they’re so pretty and romantic and they say ‘I love you, keep me safe.’ They’ll have babies. Beautiful babies, that are super smart and look just like Santana. A house full. She can hear all the lullabies Santana will sing to them, and how she’ll walk around the house barefoot with them on her hip. She wants it all with her, until they’re old and grey sitting in some retirement home, fingers pinky linked, like always. It’s so simple in her head, so _easy_ and obvious, and she doesn’t understand how it can feel close enough to touch, but miles away at the same time.

That’s always how it’s been with Santana, close, but not close enough.

The tears that have been building up in her all day, stinging and threatening to fall work their way stubbornly out. They cloud her vision; hot on her cheeks as they streak down, bitter when they reach the corner of her mouth. She steels herself, fighting against it; turning in time to the music when the backing track surges up, but it’s no good. Her breath catches, and she chokes out a sob. Focus lost, she twists awkwardly out of a jump, and lands even harder.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

For a moment, she lies on her back, completely still, staring up at the lighting rig. Shocked into silence, even though she can still feel tears falling, she’s not sure if she can even move. When she reaches into her pocket to turn off the music, Santana’s picture greets her; face fragmented by the crack in the iPhone’s screen. She stares at it for what feels like a long time before she decides not to call her. People already think she’s clingy and dependent when it comes to Santana. She doesn’t like proving people right. So, she ignores all the badges for missed calls and texts that that grow in panic as they shorten in characters.

_B, are you gonna be late for lunch? I’ll save you a spot (and some chocolate pudding, screw Coach Sylvester) xxxx S_

_Britt-Britt, if you’re not here in ten minutes, this pudding is mine. I’ll make up for it later. Bio sucked. I need the sugar to get me through this afternoon. <3 u. xxx S_

_Britt, where the fuck are you? Ferris just gave me the Death Glare. Did you skip again?_

_Brittany, call me. Please. I’m worried._

Getting to her feet again is slow, and painful. There’s too much adrenaline still kicking through her, making her heart race. She lets out a cry upon standing, feeling a familiar stabbing pain in her left ankle. When she reaches to touch it, gingerly, she almost screams, but somehow manages to hold it in. Her ballet teacher says that pain means you’re working hard, so she’s used to a little; used to pushing her body to the limit to get longer lines and higher jumps, but this is the wrong kind of pain. This is the kind of pain people talk about before explaining injuries that cost them their career. She doesn’t even _have_ a career yet, she doesn’t even have a high school diploma.

The bell rings to signal the end of the day, and she suddenly remembers where she’s meant to be. Cheerios with Santana.

She waits at least ten minutes for the hallway to clear before she even dares to try to open the auditorium door. She can’t take the staring and the whispering or anyone’s help but Santana’s. Her progress is slow, and she has to hold on to the wall, and then the lockers, fingers scrabbling for purchase to keep herself upright. Far too unsteady, she falters a few times, biting down on her lip to muffle the sound, but it doesn’t help. Every step is agony, and she can’t move any faster, even though she knows the later it gets, the more Coach Sylvester will yell. They’ll be into practicing the week’s routine properly by now, when they need the most concentration and the least interruption.

When she catches sight of herself reflected in the trophy cabinet across from the gym, she can’t quite believe who she’s looking at. Her face is covered in a sheen of sweat, ashen, and her eyes are red and puffy from crying, camouflaging the dark circles she’s had for weeks. Her hair’s all over the place, the neat bun she put it into hours ago has come half loose. She looks terrible. For once, the outside reflects the inside.

She nearly collapses when she gets through the door, clinging to it for support. Her pained whimper lost completely in the chatter of the other Cheerios. Santana is partly blocked from her view, sitting up the in bleachers on the opposite side of the gym with a clipboard on her lap, Coach Sylvester’s whistle around her neck (but Coach herself is nowhere to be found). Allison Mackenzie is sitting next to her, redoing her pony, so it’s sleek and tight, like it should be; eyeing the other girls suspiciously, fixing them with the same cold, hard stare Santana used to wear like a mask, but rarely shows anymore.

In front of them, Amber Johnson moves, and Santana glances across, making eye contact with her. All the colour drains from her face. Santana leaps up, the clipboard clatters to the ground, and she’s fighting her way through the group of girls surrounding her, pushing them out the way and glaring at them when they’re slow to move.

“Britt-Britt,” Santana says, face etched with concern. “Where have you been? What happened? What’s wrong?”

She expected Santana to be angry, because she practically ignored her all day, but it’s the opposite. Every word is said in the soft, calm voice that usually only she gets to hear. The other girls turn to look, and twenty pairs of eyes are on her and Santana both for long seconds before they all crowd around, full of “Oh my Gods” and other things said too quietly for her to catch.

“I … just needed to dance, and I kept dancing, dancing and … I landed wrong,” she struggles to answer as she tries to keep her balance.

Santana slides an arm carefully around her, taking her weight, and feels better. “It’s Ok. You’re gonna be OK. I’ve got you, lean on me,” Santana says, gently, turning her toward the bleachers. Then, she switches her attention back to the Cheerios, not gentle at all. “Move! All of you, and quit fucking staring! Can’t you see she’s in pain?”

There’s a lot more whispering, mumbles of apology, and grumbling as they part to let them pass. They hobble forward together slowly. It’s awkward, because Santana is shorter, and it seems to hurt even more than before, but she can feel Santana’s hand on the small of her back, drawing slow circles, keeping her steady. Santana carefully helps her to sit down, and the relief is instant. Her ankle looks dangerously swelled. She’s in big trouble.

“Get outside, all of you, now!” Santana snaps. “Mack, take this!” she adds, throwing Coach’s whistle to Allison so fast she barely has time to catch it. Santana stands there; hands on her hips, watching every one of them go, staring them down.

It’ll be all over Facebook in a few seconds, and the school by tomorrow. The top spot of the pyramid is open, and Santana Lopez is totally gay for Brittany Pierce.

When the doors slam shut, and the gym is completely silent apart from the clock on the wall ticking away, Coach Sylvester comes into view, and she watches Santana stiffen, hands suddenly clenched at her sides.

"Where are Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Fake Boobs?" Coach asks, attention fixed on Allison and the others.

Everyone speaks at once, and it’s all confused, like a really loud game of Chinese Whispers.

Allison’s real reply is lost in the high-pitched shrill of Coach’s whistle. "I don't care!” Coach spits out, “I don't want excuses, I want results, ladies. Out on that field. Wind sprints!” she bellows, blowing her whistle again.

The girls shuffle off, and they both listen and wait to see if Coach will come and speak to them. Instead, she just looks through the tiny piece of glass in the door, shakes her head, and walks away.

Santana relaxes immediately and turns back to look at her. She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“Oh B, look at you,” Santana says, in that same quiet voice. “I’ve been so worried. Why didn’t you tell me where you were?”

“Sorry … I just … sorry …” she tails off, no idea where can start or how to explain any of it.

Kneeling in front of her, Santana takes her hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll get the nurse or we’ll call my dad. He’ll fix it. It’ll be fine. I promise.”

Santana knows. She can tell from the look on her face. Doctor’s daughter. She’s heard Dr Lopez talk to people like that. Maybe it’s just a twist or maybe it’s a bad sprain. Maybe it’s a break, because she’s done both before, but they’ve never felt nearly this bad.

“Where does it hurt, baby? Tell me?” Santana asks, carefully, thumb stroking her palm to soothe her like she always does.

It’s too much. A whimper escapes before she can reply, and Santana leans up to kiss her cheek, not caring they might get caught.

“Everywhere,” she shakes her head, starting to cry again. “Everything hurts, San.”

From the way Santana scrambles up and pulls her close, shushing her and stroking her hair as she lets weeks worth of tears, anger, and frustration come out, she knows it’s not just about the pain in her ankle anymore. Santana knows it too.


	7. Hands Are Clever [Brittany]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“She wants this summer to last forever.”_

***

_No words that have their place_  
 _Not in a bedroom_  
 _Said I don't care if you go_  
 _Well, that's a lie, cause I do._

***

If someone had walked up to her in freshman year and told her that she’d be spending her summer at a party where Quinn Fabray and Rachel Berry were in the same space, for _fun_ and at Santana’s house, when they weren’t even at school anymore, she would’ve laughed. If that same someone had told her Santana would be there too, she would’ve laughed harder. If they’d also told her Santana would be there as her girlfriend, proudly, lapping up all the attention that playing co-hostess gets her, she probably would’ve fainted. She doesn’t _quite_ faint, but she does almost screw up the next batch of punch she’s making, because she’s so distracted by Santana dancing around the poolside, laughing at something Kurt’s just said.

It’s getting late, but everyone’s still here. The excitement from winning Nationals and graduating hasn’t begun to wear off yet, and she doesn’t want it to. They’re still in that crazy, super friendly place where everyone loves each other and thinks they’re awesome. It’s like a sugar high without the wicked crash and getting drunk without the hangover, all mixed together, but better. Santana usually hates when parties run over, and people hang around forever, but no one seems to care, they’re too busy having fun. Maribel is away at a conference, so they have the house to themselves pretty much. The only rules she left them with was not to break anything, play music after nine, and make sure they didn’t drink too much – that one got broken within about ten seconds, after Puck and Sam came in carrying a huge keg of beer to add to the stash they’d already built up. She doesn’t even like beer that much, but she drank some anyway, even though Santana took the cup away two seconds after, and gave her something else because she deserved “better than Puckerman’s cheap ass can afford.”

Tina, Sam, Sugar, and Joe are in the pool playing chicken – she always wins, especially when she has Santana on her shoulders – while Artie floats around on this huge orange inflatable chair she found that has a cup holder and everything. Santana didn’t complain about buying it for him. In fact, she wanted him to come. Blaine and Kurt are on the loungers at the side with Santana, talking away, sipping idly on their drinks. Puck is standing at the barbeque with Mike, flipping last few burgers while Rachel bosses them both around and keeps pointing every time the meat ones get even a tiny bit near the vegan ones. Quinn and Mercedes are sunbathing themselves on the grass, flicking through magazines and pointing at the pictures, laughing.

Even Finn came, and he’s in charge of the music. She had to talk Santana around to let him, because he likes weird songs. They’ve forgiven him, mostly because Rachel wouldn’t stop pleading with them to try – though she thinks there will always be a tiny part of her that’s still angry, because Finn just made everything a million times worse and all snowballed, really, really fast with that tape, and Reggie Salazar, and then Santana’s abuela turning against her. Finn took away one of the few choices Santana had left and forced her into talking to her parents before she was ready to. She guesses that forgiving him in spite of all that means they’re growing up now, because being spiteful and holding grudges is what kids do, and they aren’t really kids anymore.

She and Santana are almost living together now. They stay over at each other’s houses even more than they did before, and Santana has a key, so she doesn’t have to knock – or sneak in at night – and her curfew’s been extended because it’s summer and now they’re allowed to do different stuff and travel to places further away, since Santana’s eighteen already and she’s almost there. Watching them all from the kitchen like this, she’s even more drawn to Santana than usual.

It’s taken a long, long, time for all the dreams she’s had in her head to match up with what she sees in front of her, but right now, in the middle of this ridiculous heat wave, looking out on a yard full of people she’s come to love like a family, she knows it’s pretty close, and she couldn’t be more thankful. She’s been waiting her whole life for it to be like this. All they needed was time. All Santana needed was time.

Santana’s never looked as happy or as free as she does right now. It’s beautiful. Santana’s always _been_ beautiful of course, but it’s different, it’s _more_ somehow, and she doesn’t know why because Santana dresses the same and does her make-up the same way she always has, but she looks amazing. People change, people grow, Mr Schue kept telling them that all the time, and she ignored it, mostly – because he’d repeat himself a lot and saying stuff more doesn’t make it more true – but now she gets it. They’re the same people, underneath, but she thinks that Santana’s finally grown into her own skin. It fits her right at last. Santana’s always known she’s beautiful – way prettier than anyone else at school, a Kardashian or those other girls she sees on MTV – but she doesn’t think Santana really believed it before, even when she said the same thing lots of times too.

Puck says they’re even hotter now because they’re together. She laughed it off of course, because its just Puck being his annoying, sleazy self, but maybe he’s right too. They make each other better. They complete each other. It’s like magic, everyone can see what she always has: that Santana’s beautiful on the inside too. Whenever they touch or kiss in front of the others – and that’s a lot, because it’s _really_ hard not to – Rachel keeps saying how ‘adorable’ they are, and Puck makes fake retching noises until Quinn elbows him in the side to make him stop. Then Santana gets all shy and embarrassed and it’s super cute. She’s got that look now, because Blaine looked over and gave a little wave, holding up his empty cup before mouthing a ‘please.’

Santana glances over and smiles, blowing her a kiss. Her heart skips a little. Now she might _actually_ faint. At least Santana can resuscitate her, being a doctor’s daughter and everything – and even then, Rachel and Tina are obsessed enough with _Grey’s Anatomy_ to maybe know something if Santana freaks out.

She sets the orange juice down on the counter, because she already spilt way too much, distracted by Santana from her bartending duties – everyone knows she mixes the best drinks, whether they’ve got liquor in them or not. She borrowed a cocktails book from her grandma for Rachel’s house party in sophomore year, and learned everything in it. Santana’s coming over, half-heartedly dancing to the Rihanna song that’s still blasting out; all swaying hips and sexiness, drink in one hand, and a couple of empty bottles in the other. They’ve been working each other up all day; whispering to each other and touching unnecessarily, but it’s getting ridiculous. She doesn’t know how much more of the flirting and the teasing she can take. Santana’s got an unfair advantage, because all she’s wearing is tiny denim shorts and a striped bikini top, and her aviator sunglasses and trilby hat, and she looks super, _super_ sexy. If everyone else weren’t here, they’d totally be having hot lady sex in the pool. Screw it, everyone can just move or deal with it, because she needs Santana, and she needs her now, like Lord Tubbington and his Hersheys addiction, only worse. Once she gets her alone, they’re not leaving Santana’s bed, not even for food.

She laughs to herself, because there’s a whole summer yet, stretching out big and wide before them, a desert full of time for them to spend – not waste – before they have to start thinking about the fall and everyone packing up and leaving for college. She doesn’t want to think about that, not yet, because it means thinking about how she won’t be doing that, because she failed, and had to sit in the audience and watch Santana up on stage getting her diploma instead of standing there with her and Quinn and everybody else. She’s done with tears – they’ve cried about it, yelled about it and cried again when Mr Figgins wouldn’t change his mind and it was too late for Coach to help. Her parents cried and yelled too. There’s nothing she can do now, she just has to work hard, and take all the summer school classes she can – Santana takes her every day and they go to Breadstix when she’s done – and then work harder still next year while Santana’s at Louisville. It’ll go quickly, her dad says, and they’ll be back together before she knows it.

While she still has Santana with her, she’s not going to waste a second of it; determined to remember it all. If only your eyes could take pictures when you blinked, because whenever she takes one with her phone or a camera, they never look quite right; they never capture the moment fully. They never say that the grass in Santana’s yard is still dewy and green from the brief break of rain they had yesterday. They never say that Santana smells like honey, tequila and mint gum – and cigarettes sometimes, when she sneaks from Puck, thinking no one will notice. They never say how sweet and husky Santana’s voice sounds when she says, “I love you, Britt-Britt. So much.” She blinks anyway, storing away as much as she can, just in case.

She turns her attention back to the punch, topping up the vodka and adding little umbrellas to the glasses, like real cocktail waitresses do, pretending not to hear the sound of the screen door creaking, bottles clinking as Santana puts more in the recycling, or the soft sound of Santana’s bare feet on the tiles. She bites down her lip, giddy with anticipation.

Then, Santana’s hands slide around her waist from behind, going up under her t-shirt, and smoothing against her stomach, and there’s hot breath on her neck, and she almost forgets to breathe.

“Hey beautiful,” Santana murmurs, lips barely brushing against her neck. She leans back a little to get closer, covering her hands over Santana’s, and they just stand like that for a few moments, content.

“Hey yourself,” she replies, smiling.

“Thought I’d come and see how you’re doing. Can I help?” Santana asks, sliding her hands away and craning over her shoulder a little to see.

“I’m good,” she shrugs, dropping the last umbrella into what will be Blaine’s cup. “I like doing it. It’s fun.”

“Yeah, I know, but people take advantage, and _not_ in the nice way, B.”

The ‘nice way’ as Santana puts it, is sneaking kisses any time she’s come inside like this, or the hour or so after her classes are over that they spend the parking lot, making out in the backseat of Santana’s car, grinding against each other until they can’t see out of the windows anymore, and she does that handprint thing, like Rose in _Titanic_. It makes Santana laugh. Then she does it too, and they leave the two handprints there until Santana starts the car and rolls the windows down to clear them. Sometimes, she can still see them the next day.

“I got tired of Talented Mr Ripley out there bitching about how he’s getting dehydrated,” Santana declares dramatically, tossing her hat and her sunglasses on to the kitchen island before she hops up onto it.

“Crap! I got distracted, sorry. It’s your fault!” she turns to Santana, pointing toward her with one of the umbrellas.

Santana licks her lips, smug. “Erm, how?”

“You _know_ how, San. Just … look at you,” she sighs, shaking her head as she starts back toward the tray of drinks she’s made, but Santana reaches for her hand, pulling her back.

“Nuh-uh, he can wait. He needs to learn some patience.”

“So do you,” she smiles, placing her hands on the counter, either side of Santana’s hips, and kisses her.

It’s just meant to be a quick peck, but Santana’s hands come up to cradle her face, and then there’s tongue sneaking in. Before it goes any further, she pulls away, and Santana groans in frustration. From the look on her face, it wasn’t nearly enough.

“Britt …” Santana’s voice is thick with want. “You tease.”

“Now you know how I feel!” she smiles sweetly.

“Cute, baby. Real cute,” Santana smirks. “C’mere, we’re not done yet.”

Santana beckons her back with a wag of her finger, pulling her close until Santana’s legs are almost wrapped around her waist. Her hands drop to Santana’s thighs, fingertips stroking against the skin. They stand just looking at each other, their mouths are mere inches apart, and they each move a little, hovering on the edge of kiss. When it happens, Santana smiles against her lips. She doesn’t break things off this time, dotting kisses along Santana’s jawline and down her neck when Santana tilts her head back, letting out a shuddering breath. Her hands slide around to rest in the small of Santana’s back, but then drift to her ass, squeezing slightly.

“Mmm, looks like someone changed their mind,” Santana breathes. It’s meant to sound cocky and confident, but the desperate waver in her voice gives her away. The hands on her back, clutching ever so slightly at her t-shirt are proof.

She can see their reflection in the huge stainless steel refrigerator opposite, transfixed. It’s still a novelty to see how they look together; how they might look to other people. They look perfect. The contrast is perfect. Santana’s dark hair tumbling down her back, soft and wavy from drying naturally in the sun after swimming, her blonde, starting to fall out of the messy bun she made hours ago; Santana’s perfect caramel skin and her own hands against it, just starting to pick up tan. Her favourite thing is Santana’s crucifix tattoo that she always loves to trace over and over whenever they’re in bed together. She does it now, because she knows Santana likes it, and it gets the same little moan in response it always does.

“We look hot,” she blurts out, nodding approvingly.

Santana lets out a throaty little laugh as she lets go of her, turning to see, even though the angle’s awkward. “We do …” Santana affirms, grinning, and swings back again. “But we look even hotter when we’re naked in my bed,” Santana drawls, straightening the necklaces she’s wearing, and suddenly that tiny, meaningless touch is the sexiest thing ever.

Why did they invite everyone again? They could’ve had party for two.

“The best part though, is when I fuck your gorgeous brains out until you can’t remember you own name.”

“Santana!” she squeaks out, backing away and glancing around to see if anyone else is suddenly listening.

No one is, of course. They’re too engrossed in their own conversations.

“Oh, come on! I’ve seen you looking at me _all_ day …”

She’s not entirely sure that she’s not having a really vivid daydream; because this is the kind of stuff her fantasies have been made of for years. They’ve never had the freedom to do what they want before, because Santana’s always been worried about getting caught, but she doesn’t seem to care anymore. Santana’s never been shy when it comes to sex – apart from when she learned that sex could mean more than just getting off – but she is shy about doing stuff in public; or at least, she was.

Letting out a long breath, she tries to focus, and remember where they are, and that there are probably thirteen pairs of eyes trained on their every move.

“I know what a horny Brittany Susan Pierce looks like … and you _so_ are.”

Santana’s still talking in that delicious husky tone that drives her nuts, even when she’s not saying anything that sexy like explaining algebra or calculus. When she _is_ saying sexy things, it’s even worse. Her brain completely short-circuits, and she can’t resist her, no matter how hard she tries.

“San … don’t,” she whines. “We can’t.”

“It’s my party, my house. I can do what I want. We can do what we want.”

Santana’s hands skim down her sides, purposefully slow, thumbs sliding into the belt loops on her pink shorts, bringing her closer. She wants her _bad_ , and Santana knows it.

“And, _I_ really want to do you. Right now.”

It’s her turn to groan now, and her eyes flutter closed. She’s desperately trying to ignore the way Santana’s touching her. Their bodies are almost pressed flush now, and there’s too much warmth, and skin and Santana, and she’s seriously running out of excuses. Santana kisses her neck again, pressing harder this time, with the faintest flick of tongue; hands sliding to the buttons on her shorts, very pointedly undoing the first one.

Her breath hitches, and she swallows hard. “I think … they can make their own drinks.”

“I think so too,” Santana winks, hopping off the counter.

They try for casual until they reach the hall, and then she grabs Santana’s hand, and they run, laughing as they take the stairs two at a time. The door to Santana’s bedroom has barely closed before she’s kissing Santana breathless – hard and fast, hungry in a way she only ever is for Santana – as they cross the room to her bed. When they fall together on to it, wrapped in each other, everything changes. Santana always does this. Outside her room, it’s all flirting and dirty talk. Inside her room, it’s all gentle touches and hushed words – I love you comes as easily from Santana’s mouth as her name these days. The kissing slows until it’s soft, and they’re just gazing at each other, exchanging little pecks back and forth, holding each other like they usually do when they wake up together in the morning. Then, it’s so slow that their lips are barely moving, and they’re just sharing air, like they’re one person instead of two.

She wants this summer to last forever.


	8. I Won’t Let You Down [Santana]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Their goodbye was just as hard as she thought it would be – drawn out beyond reason, painful beyond words.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For story notes see [Chapter One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/738503/chapters/1374571). Thank you, as ever, to [@cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com/%20target=) for her beta skills and cheerleading. This chapter is one of many ‘blanks’ this story fills in that we didn’t get to see in canon, and it also happens to be one of my favourites to write for that very reason. Click [here](https://31.media.tumblr.com/a947d3d3c1f17b5367dcb8fd2dc682fb/tumblr_n3op35kTiC1txkikoo4_1280.jpg) to see the face claims of featured secondary characters.

***

_It’s another grey autumn day_  
 _You’re the sunshine trying to break through_  
 _I can only imagine that I’m walking with you_  
 _I realise if you were mine_  
 _We may fall apart_  
 _Oh you’d have my heart_  
 _There’s too many things between you and me_

***

So, here she is. College. Louisville. Millar Hall, east wing, third floor. She made it out of Lima mostly unscathed. Miracles do happen, after all. Her car’s unpacked. Everything cared to bring is in boxes all around her. The room is sparsely furnished and the walls are bare. She knows she should finish going through boxes and settling herself in, but she just _can’t_ yet, it’s too much to deal with. They don’t tell you about this part in all the glossy college brochures. She guesses that’s because massive emotional turmoil probably isn’t seen as a positive. Even though there’s people everywhere and a ton of activity and noise going all around her – doors slamming, trolley cases rolling along, and people calling after their kids or whoever else – she’s never felt more alone.

She’s sitting on her bed, looking between her phone – praying for it to ring or for a text to magically appear – and the student handbook, and it already feels wrong. Like she accidentally woke up in someone else’s life, and she’s in the middle of some whacked out version of _Freaky Friday_. Or, there’s another version of her, who didn’t take up the offer, working their ass off at Breadstix waiting tables who gets to see Brittany every damn day. If you had painted her that picture at the start of senior year, she would’ve laughed, thought it the most pathetic thing ever – the very definition of a Lima Loser, but now, if Brittany asked her, she’d pack everything up, go back home and take that job without so much as a second thought.

Except, that wouldn’t happen, because Brittany will never say anything. Brittany would never make her choose, and that’s kind of the problem. There was never meant to be a choice at all. They’ve been talking about going to Louisville together ever since they were freshmen at McKinley. It was just a given. She didn’t even question it It’s the reason why she found herself nodding away in Coach Sylvester’s office when the whole scholarship thing was unveiled; snowballing before her eyes, and she couldn’t do anything, because she’d look ungrateful. She’d be hurting Brittany twice over: shattering this long-held dream of theirs and throwing all that hard work back in her face. Brittany’s made sure she had something to cling to once she got into the real world. Where she’s the tiniest of fish in a very big pond. It turns out all she could was stand at the water’s edge and watch Brittany drown, because it’s too late to wade in and rescue her.

Whenever she thought about college, she thought about sharing the experience with Brittany: Parties; meeting new people; pledging to a sorority; staying up until crazy hours sneaking into bars with fake IDs and trying not to get busted by the RA; feeding coins into the machines to do their laundry and flipping out when the colours ran; trying to cook, but inevitably living off cold pizza and ramen; smashing every damn cheer routine that’s thrown at them; going to classes she actually _likes_ and is interested in, instead of monotonous crap that makes her want to die. She can still do all that, of course, but it won’t be the same, because she has to do it all by herself. She’s not good at it. She never has been. Even when she was a child, she’d crave attention from her parents, and she could never play with toys on her own. Never ever, did she think that she’d be completing spending the greater part of her college experience driving through the night, stuck on the I-75, bawling her eyes out when some lame ass radio station gets at her weakness for love songs and Dusty Springfield sounds like she’s singing to her alone.

Finally, her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she’s never been sadder to see Brittany’s name on the screen.

_Did you meet anyone cool yet? Hope they’re being nice to you. Is Leigh there yet? xx B_

Sad because if she goes out of this room, it’s not a few blocks walk until she can see her face and kiss her stupid. It’s four hours from here to get back to Lima, to Brittany and everything she classes as her life, assuming the traffic’s good. In the abstract, four hours felt like nothing. It’s over two Disney movies, a mini marathon of _Sweet Valley High_ or _Dawson’s Creek_ , over in the blink of an eye: the pattern for countless weekends with Brittany for years. Now she’s contemplating it in terms of the number of miles it is to drive – over two hundred – it feels like anything _but_ nothing.

Her roommate hasn’t arrived yet; maybe she’ll better feel when that happens. Everyone’s feeling like this, probably – even if they won’t admit to it – but at least if there’s another person to talk to, she has something to distract herself with. All she’s got is a name on a piece of paper at the moment: Leigh Hamilton. They’ve exchanged a couple of emails back and forth, and she seems nice, but everyone reads _nice_. It’s still perfectly plausible that this chick will turn out to be a psycho stalker, and she’ll just be murdered in her bed in the middle of the first semester once she’s been lulled into a false sense of security. It’s equally plausible that she’ll be the weird one, and not Leigh. Yes. She’s going to be _that_ person on her floor – the weird introverted kid who never really talks and leaves their room even less.

_Not spoken to anyone yet, and no Leigh. Still unpacking! There’s too much stuff. I can’t see the floor! S xxx_

She takes a quick picture for no real reason, and pulls a face, hoping it’ll make Brittany laugh. They’ve scheduled their Skype date for later on, assuming she can get the internet connection to play nice, and she doesn’t get dragged off to fifty thousand things in the name of ‘fun’ because everyone’s desperate to make friends. The fun aspect is debatable, because organised bonding activities are about as fun as the dentist until someone dares to break out the liquor. She’s had enough of that crap at cheer camp. If she’s going anywhere, she’s going of her own free will, not because some overly peppy RA is forcing her to.

Being here feels like another mistake, but she supposes it can’t really be called a mistake if you’re making the decision for someone you love. The only person she’s ever loved.

_I told you not to take so much! Is there anything left in your room? :D_

She stares at the screen for a moment, not knowing how to reply. Half of her wants to say ‘The only thing I need is you,’ but she knows that’s a bad idea because Brittany will call her, and then there will be tears and they’ll both get upset, and she’ll just feel even worse because she can’t comfort Brittany like she usually would. The other half wants to say ‘everything important,’ because it has the same kind of sentiment, and it’ll hopefully reassure Brittany more than upset her. She used to think that her leaving was Brittany’s worst fear, but it’s not, it’s the fear that she won’t come back again.

It’s the first time she doesn’t know what to say to her, genuinely. She guesses it’s a feeling she’ll have to get used to. Her fingers type and re-type, nothing sounds right, hovering dangerously close to typing things like ‘I can’t do this,’ ‘I miss you’ and ‘I want to come home,’ but she stops herself for Brittany’s sake as much as her own. So, instead, she keeps it light and flirty. Brittany might see through the façade, but she has to at least try.

_Don’t worry, my stash of Reeses is still there in my nightstand._

_Awesome! I’ll snag it when I sleep in your bed tonight. Your mom says I can. I think she said it to stop me feeling sad. Your dad was super nice to me too. It was weird. I’m gonna sleep in your sweatshirt. You’re gonna wear mine right? I snuck it in your suitcase. I wish I could’ve fitted too. I forgot what it’s like to sleep without you._

Reading the end of the text, she swallows hard, wishing away the tears that are welling in the back of her eyes, seconds from being shed.

_Of course I’m gonna wear it. It’s the most comfortable sweatshirt ever! It’s my favourite coz it belongs to my favourite girl :) How could my dad not love you? You’re Brittany S. Pierce! I wish you could have come. I’ll miss cuddle time too, baby. Save them up for when I get back, OK?_

This time, she doesn’t wait for a reply, because all she keeps picturing is Brittany sitting in her own room and crying as she types back her reply. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say, well, she’s not so sure, because absence is making her heart hurt like hell instead. Leaning over, she puts her phone on the nightstand, and throws open her suitcase and rifles through it, looking for the red Cheerios sweatshirt Brittany packed. The second she finds it, she pulls it on, revelling in the softness and the lingering scent of Brittany’s perfume, the rest of her suitcase forgotten. She wraps her arms around herself for comfort. With her eyes closed, it’s easy to pretend Brittany’s arms are around her instead of her own. Somehow; it makes the distance between them seem that bit smaller.

Her parents and Brittany left a couple of hours ago, but it feels like it’s been a couple of days instead. Walking around the campus with them, she could pretend for a little while that Brittany wasn’t going to leave her there and go back to Lima. She could pretend they were sharing a dorm instead. She could pretend they’d have lunch with either set of parents every couple of weekends, and it would become their thing to do. Except, as the day went on, it became more difficult to keep up the pretence of happiness, and even harder to let go of Brittany than she imagined it would. They all went to lunch at some little place off campus; a real grown-up type deal, like she’s always wanted to do – Brittany’s come along to Breadstix dinners with her mom before and she’s always been supportive, but this was different. It was a huge deal, and not just because they were in a new place. It felt like this huge landmark. A strange, bittersweet landmark, because so much of today has been about embracing the new and letting go of the old. Her father, it seems, has finally gotten it into his head that she and Brittany aren’t just a phase or a casual thing. Given how late in the game he’s chosen to turn over a new leaf, she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Seeing both her parents be cordial seated at the same table, chatting away was beyond weird. Even weirder than when they do it out of respect for some ridiculous sense of tradition at Christmas and Thanksgiving. She hasn’t seen them this way since before the divorce, back when she hadn’t even reached double digits. They kept getting ridiculously emotional – her father never is, he didn’t even cry at her graduation, but he did this afternoon – saying how proud of her they were, hugging her to the point she could barely breathe, and reminding her every two seconds to call if she needed anything. She’s in Louisville not Afghanistan, but you wouldn’t know it. She’s got enough groceries to feed the whole floor, and an extra hundred bucks from her father on top of the other two he transferred earlier in the week – most of it will get chewed up by her cell phone bill calling Brittany, but she doesn’t care, it’s money well spent.

Their goodbye was just as hard as she thought it would be – drawn out beyond reason, painful beyond words. Thankfully, her mom made it so they could be alone, neither of them would’ve been able to hold back, whether they were in a room full of hundreds of people or just each other. They both ended up sitting on the bed she claimed as her own, only just able to fit with all her belongings surrounding them. Though Brittany promised her there wouldn’t be any more presents – they’ve been buying each other flowers and candy and making mix tapes all summer – she knew one might be coming. First, there was a congratulations card with a cartoon picture of her in her Cards uniform on the front and Lord Tubbington on the back, grinning. It was the most adorable thing she’d ever seen, except for Brittany blushing as she watched her read what was written inside.

_Santana, my beautiful girl, you did it! I’m so proud of you. Louisville is going to be amazing. You’ll be the fiercest Cards girl in history! They have no idea how lucky they are! Don’t be scared about tomorrow, chase it down and grab it with both hands. You deserve it. Be bold. Be brave. Be brilliant. Be you._

_My songbird is going to take flight like I always knew she would. Live your dream._

_When you’re lonely, and all that time and distance hurts you too much, remember this: ‘i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)’_

_Love always,_

_Brittany xxxxxx_

When she glanced up from reading, tears streaking down her face, Brittany scooted closer, and slowly unfurled her palm. Inside, was a beautiful gold heart-shaped pendant, or half a heart. Brittany had been wearing the other half all day, secretly tucked away out of sight. The moment Brittany reached around, and put it on for her, fingertips skimming against her collarbone, it felt right. She stood completely still, listening while Brittany told her it meant they’d always be together, no matter what, as she held her from behind, squeezing her tighter than she ever had. They didn’t need to say anything else.

Soon, she had no choice but to approach the inevitable. Her mom had texted twice and called once to get Brittany to come down to the car. She tried to keep it light, so it was more a ‘see you later’ than anything grim and final like ‘goodbye.’ It didn’t work. They still ended up in tears. She had to wipe Brittany’s face with the cuff of her jacket because neither of them had any tissues left. When it came to it, the little speech she had planned went out the window as soon as it dawned on her that Brittany was actually going to leave. It all came out in a big, uncoordinated rush, and she could barely speak as she held Brittany tight, trying to soothe her with soft-spoken promises that they’re strong, and Brittany’s the bravest, strongest girl she’s ever known, and they can do this and they’ll be in touch every day, and soon enough, she’ll get a break and she’ll come back; all peppered with kisses and I love yous.

The last kiss they shared before she grudgingly let go of her, until it was physically impossible to keep hold, was the longest ever, but it felt wrong. It was too desperate to be passionate, too sad to be anything like loving. The taste of Brittany was lost in the saltiness of tears. The memory of it will never leave her. She closed her eyes to save her the image of Brittany leaving, but as soon as the door closed, she felt like part of her had left to. Half a person again, with the same empty feeling she carried around, heavy in her chest, the day she walked into McKinley for the first time.

She’s being ridiculous and melodramatic and she hates herself. The handbook gets tossed somewhere vaguely near the desk, because she’s not in the right headspace for rules and regulations or orientation activities right now. Her phone goes into her jeans pocket immediately after, because it’s just torturing her – if she looks at the photos she has of Brittany she’ll just lose it completely, and ‘blubbing mess’ is never a good first impression – and she needs to focus on something else.

With a sigh, she flops backwards and lies there, staring up at the ceiling. It’s just homesickness or heartsickness or am-I-fucking-up-my-life-by-not-taking-my-mom’s-money-and-getting-my-ass to-New-York sickness. Whatever it is, it is _not_ going to take her down this early. She’s determined to see this out if it kills her (and it feels like it might). No, she can do this. She can make her parents proud, _and_ live up to Coach Sylvester’s obviously overblown recommendation letter. She can _still_ be the best girlfriend Brittany Susan Pierce has had in eighteen years of life. Until Brittany graduates, this is just something that has to be done, like studying for a test or getting shots before you travel overseas.

The ends justify the means.

In her pocket, her phone buzzes again. She debates ignoring it, but then wonders if it’s her mom, checking up, because she promised she would at some point or maybe her dad, because he’s feeling nostalgic or guilty or both. It’s neither. It’s Brittany, and given what she wrote last and how long it’s taken to arrive, it’s not quite the reply she was expecting.

_Promise me something?_

_What’s that, B?_

_That you won’t forget me. I really do love you, Santana. I don’t think I said it enough when you were here :(_

Her heart sinks. Oh how _very_ wrong Brittany is. Through it all, in the worst of it, the darkest of it, Brittany’s love has been the only constant, the only certain thing she had to hold on to.

_Baby don’t say things like that! How could I possibly forget you?_

She debates calling her to finish what she wants to say, but she knows she won’t be able to speak, so she types it instead. She knows she shouldn’t, that this is another spiral towards tears, but she can’t stop herself. She promised Brittany she’d always tell the truth about how she feels. Just because there’s a lot more distance between them doesn’t mean that’s going to change.

_I always knew you loved me Britt. I was just afraid to love you back. I never doubted it. Ever. I’ll never doubt it. I’ll never doubt us. Nothing is going to change. I promise you that. I love you so much xxxxx._

This time, she waits to make sure the message sends before pocketing it again. Utterly engrossed, she almost jumps out of her skin when someone knocks on the door loudly, and her eyes dart toward it. She sits up, hand to her chest, clutching at the pendant Brittany gave her, tracing its shape, feeling her own heart speed away, and slowly settle again. Puffing out a breath to steady herself, she rushes to answer it, already sensing that Leigh will be on the other side. OK, so she’s terrible with new people, and hasn’t actually made any new friends for the last four years, but she can talk her way out of just about anything. So, for now, she’s going to go by her favourite rule: fake it until you make it, or more precisely, fake it until she’s sussed this girl out. She’s always been a pretty good judge of character, but those judgements were usually snap ones, and solely based on interaction between the hours of eight and three. Twenty-four hours a day for the next God knows how many weeks is a different thing altogether. Maybe lying her way through the accommodation form as she filled it out sprawled across Brittany’s bed half naked and more than a little bit distracted wasn’t the smartest thing to do.

The door opens with a horrendously loud creek, and there’s Leigh; all peroxide curls and sunny smile. Every inch the South Carolina girl she imagined in her head. Jesus this girl is immaculate. Enviably, given how far she’s travelled, like something from a Ralph Lauren ad: sunglasses, crisp shirt, blazer, jeans, and ballet flats. With everything going on, she didn’t have time to Google or Facebook stalk, but maybe it’s a good thing. Now she’s wishing she tried a little harder, and pulled out some classic Lopez high style, because she’s being put to shame.

“Hi!” Leigh offers, brightly, inching her way forward. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hey,” she replies, with a cautious smile, offering out he hand to shake, cursing herself two seconds after, because she feels like she’s suddenly back in Kindergarten, and she’s trying to remember what the hell her mom said was the polite thing to do.

This is awkward. Really awkward. Like the awkward you feel when you accidentally walk in on someone in the shower when you went to use the bathroom.

Leigh laughs nervously. “So this is …”

“Awkward?”

Leigh shrugs. “I was going to say overwhelming … or something.”

“Yeah, or something,” she laughs, and suddenly things feel a little _less_ weird.

She leans against the door, opening it wider, and Leigh walks inside, dropping down the bags she’s carrying, resting her sunglasses on the top of her head.

“Oh wow, I brought _way_ too much stuff,” Leigh says, with a laugh as she looks around the room. “At least my dad will be relieved he doesn’t have to carry everything.”

She touches her fingers to Brittany’s necklace again, and it has the same calming effect as before, letting herself imagine what Brittany would think of this girl, and then, how she would do if she got the chance to meet Brittany for the first time all over again. She’d be more honest, more open, less guarded. So, she takes a risk, lets out the real Santana, the one that Brittany knows and loves, even though she’s wary.

“You need any help with your stuff?”

Leigh turns from the window to face her. “Are you sure? I mean, you’ve barely unpacked yourself.”

“Totally,” she shrugs. “You had a long drive and everything. You’re from Anderson, right? It was bad enough driving from Lima.”

Leigh nods. “That’d be great. Thank you!”

“No problem.”

As she follows Leigh out the door, her phone buzzes again in her back pocket. She smiles to herself as she reads Brittany’s latest text.

_You’re the sweetest girl ever, Santana Lopez! Can’t wait to Skype later. xxxx_

_Whatever, I’m the baddest girl and you know it! <3 you. Leigh just got here. You’d like her, I think. She seems cool. Skype is so on! xxxx_

Brittany’s reply comes back almost immediately.

_You’re my honey, so you’re the sweestest. Yay! Now you’re not on your own anymore. I’m glad. Go have fun! Tell me everything!_

She’s not so sure about being the sweetest girl, but Brittany’s definitely the cutest. Stalling near the entrance to the hall, met with a barrage of unfamiliar faces, she’s unsure of herself again, feeling her defences go back up immediately. That is, until she remembers what Brittany wrote to her, and the Cummings quote that’s always been her favourite.

_‘i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)’_

They might be apart right now, but she’s definitely not alone.


	9. Relax My Beloved [Brittany]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It’s just not the same without her. She’s not the same.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For story notes see [Chapter One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/738503/chapters/1374571). Thank you, as ever, to [cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com) for her beta skills and cheerleading. This chapter is one of many ‘blanks’ this story fills in that we didn’t get to see in canon, and it also happens to be one of my favourites to write for that very reason. Click [here](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v288/kateluvsjoaquin/Fic%20Stuff/lateclaims1.jpg) to see the face claims of featured secondary characters.

***

_Relax my beloved, don't worry for me_   
_Don't shed a tear for me always be near for me_   
_Be comforted my love don't bow you head for me_   
_Promise you'll smile for me don't ever cry for me_   
_You know these walls they may fall down_   
_But I'll still hold on to you_   
_At heights higher than you'd imagine me to_

***

Mr Schue said what happened today with JBI is a cry for help. She thinks that maybe it was more of a scream, because it had to be loud enough to reach the ears of someone out of state. Coach Sylvester said she’d hit rock bottom. She thinks she hit rock bottom a long time ago, it just took her a long time to be found under the rubble. People talk about hitting rock bottom a lot, and she wasn’t really sure what that meant, but now she’s definitely sure. It’s the worst thing you can imagine for yourself, and then worse again.

Today she hit rock bottom.

The shouting’s over, it’s been over for a couple of hours, but everything she’s heard is stuck in her head: she’s a disappointment, she’s a failure, she lets people down. It’s what she does. It’s what she can’t seem to _stop_ doing. She hasn’t seen Mr Schue that weird shade of red in a long time. Thanks to him and Miss Pillsbury, she’s going to be in tutoring sessions every week so she can get her grades back up. She’s back on the Cheerios and she’s back in Glee too. Things look like they might be going in the right direction again. It’s time to celebrate; there should be some kind of ticker tape parade with floats and stuff like the Macys one they watch on TV at Thanksgiving. Except, she doesn’t really feel like celebrating, because although she got everything back she lost; the most important part of her life is still lost, and getting further away each day, no matter how hard they both try to stop it.

She wants to pretend everything’s OK and that she’s perfectly fine, like today was just a really weird dream, like the ones you get when you eat cheese too close to going to bed. She wants to wave her American History test score at the webcam and watch her smile, bursting with pride. She just wants to listen to Santana talk about her day and the crazy routines she and the other girls have to learn this week; how much she has to read and how much bullshit the syllabus is – because it’s full of “stories about whiny ass rich boys” – and she wants to talk to Leigh about her boyfriend, Jason, and all the amazing places he’s travelled to. Mostly, she just wants to watch Santana with her because she’s sort of fascinated by watching Santana with new people, and she’s pretty much decided that Leigh is the best new person Santana can have in her life right now.

_Santana Lopez is unavailable._

What she doesn’t want to do, at all, is talk to her about Glee, the Britney mess, and JBI – she didn’t really mean it, he just got in the way. She’s just so angry, and frustrated and lonely, and it’s too big to dance out like she used to do when she couldn’t talk to Santana. Once it’s out there, that’s all Santana’s going to want to talk about, and Santana will make it into a huge deal and feel guilty because she can’t just drop everything and come back to her. She’d love it if the next person who knocked on her bedroom door was magically Santana, but it’s not going to happen.

She never wants to hear a Britney Spears song again. Ever, even if that sweet new girl Marley is singing it and she really likes how it sounds. Marley made Britney sound so pretty and so beautiful that it made her chest hurt so much she thought she might’ve had a heart attack, just like Mr Hummel. Though, right now, it feels like a heart attack might hurt a lot less. Kurt isn’t even online, so she can’t ask him about it to check. The JBI incident is all over the school, and she’s sure someone will have told Santana already. She turned off her phone after leaving Coach Sylvester’s office and took the bus instead of getting a ride with Tina like they planned yesterday. She skipped dinner, even though it caused a huge argument with her mom. Her parents don’t know a thing about the stuff with JBI or anything else – they won’t understand, so what’s the use in trying? No one understands her. No one ever has except Santana. She’s tired of having to explain herself.

Ever since the argument, she’s been in her room, curled up in bed under the covers, cocooning herself in her duvet and staring at her buddy window, willing Santana’s status to change to show her as online. Waiting. Just waiting. Waiting and crying. Waiting and looking at pictures of Santana on her phone: in her fresh-out-the-box Cards uniform, beaming at her; pouting for the camera in some huge oversized sunglasses, like some runway model; sleeping, hair all mussed up, blissfully unaware that her picture’s being taken; a picture of them together kissing, Santana holding the phone at arm’s length to take it. Waiting and watching videos on her laptop: Nationals of them altogether, Santana commenting on everyone and everything; Troubletones performances ripped from Sam’s YouTube channel; old unedited segments of _Fondue for Two_ with Santana wearing her glasses and doing an intro like a news anchor so she could test the camera setup; the both of them singing along off-key to Adele in the car.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

She’s ignored everyone else who’s tried to IM her for the past hour – Mike, Sugar, Tina, Kitty, and Sam – playing the ‘Be Happy’ mix that Santana made her instead. It’s full of old school Destiny’s Child, Spice Girls, Ke$ha, and Christina Aguilera. Usually, she’d be bouncing around her bedroom to it because it makes her feel like she’s swallowed her own body weight in candy, and the sugar rush never wears off, but today, it’s just making her feel as sad as that really long playlist of Amy Winehouse songs they looped for hours on the day they heard she died and Santana cried like someone she truly loved had died. She feels the same as that day right now, and it never feels like it’s going to go away.

It’s little things she misses about her. For little things, they sure hurt real big: seeing Santana waiting on the drive to take her to school. Sweet little texts full of emoji’s every morning, every night, or whenever they have tests or competitions.

_Happy Monday <3 U_

_Sweet dreams, baby xxxx_

_Good luck for your test, cutie. You’ll ace it. I’ll reward you later :P_

_We will so kick ass today! We got this, Cheerios FTW! Carmel are dead in the water!_ _Them pretty boy Warblers are goin’ down! Snix is ready!_.

She misses how Santana would massage her feet after dance class or stand on her back to work out the kinks when it hurt after Cheerios. She misses Santana’s skin, Santana’s kisses, Santana’s fingertips, touching her; soft and careful, but always curious and Santana’s taste on her tongue. Most of all, she misses Santana’s face, inches from hers, moments from a kiss every time they’d wake up together. It’s been a long time since she woke up in Santana’s arms.

Even so, little by little, Santana’s starting to fade.

_Santana Lopez is unavailable._

Santana promised they’d Skype this afternoon after she got out of class, or at least chat on the phone, but for the first time since they’ve been apart, she doesn’t want to talk to her. Well, that’s not quite true, she _always_ wants to talk to Santana. She wants it to be like every other Skype session they’ve had, but it won’t be, not once she tells Santana what happened at school. So, she just waits and imagines how it will go, hoping for the best. Hoping that once the bad part about JBI is out, it’ll be fine, and it’ll stretch long into the night, spilling over into the next day, until she falls asleep, and wakes up to find her dad saying goodnight to Santana, telling her to go to bed – Santana will never, _ever_ end their chat first no matter how tired she is – and she always smiles because Santana always calls him Mr Pierce, even though they’re close enough to have her call him Eddie now.

It always starts with her catching Santana doing something cute, like fixing her hair or straightening her clothes – even if she’s wearing her pyjamas and doesn’t have her contacts in – and she’s greeted with the most beautiful smile and a “hey you,” if Leigh is there and a “hey beautiful girl,” if she isn’t. They always end up talking about everything and nothing. On the good days, sometimes Santana helps her with her homework or reads her whatever book they’re working on in her English 101 class. On the bad days, they mostly just sit and look at each other, playing music to each other, trying not to say the words ‘I miss you’ and say the words ‘I love you’ a little louder instead, failing to hold back tears, because just looking each other on the screen is painful, but no one wants to end the chat. On the in-between days, they want each other so much that it hurts and everything Santana does is sexy – even if it’s not meant to be. They both lock their doors, and the shameless flirting and teasing they do in texts or sneakily type while they talk about other stuff is said out loud. She ends up half naked, desperate, fingers buried inside of herself as deep as she can get them as Santana urges her forward, speaking in low tones, voice thick as molasses – “Oh Britt, you’re so fucking beautiful,” “That feels so good doesn’t it, baby?” – watching with dark lust-filled eyes, touching herself too. Sometimes, it’s enough.

Today, it’s not enough. She wants Santana right here, next to her, kissing her softly, running fingers through her hair to calm her like no one else can. Santana would tell her everything’s OK, just like when they said goodbye to each other three weeks, two days, and fourteen hours ago in her dorm, and it would be, if she could feel Santana’s body next to her, warm and inviting, curled against her holding tight. But Santana isn’t and it won’t, not for another two weeks or more. The calendar on her wall is all marked up. There are too few days crossed off and too many left to go. They’re both busy, but Santana’s schedule is getting crazier, because of papers, and games, and practice means that sometimes they only have time for quick phone calls, and they get interrupted anyway. She hates that she can see, in real-time, that Santana is pulling away from her, whether she wants to or not.

_Santana Lopez became friends with Leigh Hamilton, Jason Schiller, Lindsay Taylor, Sean Wexler and 5 other people._

Part of her is happy, because she wants Santana to be happy in Kentucky, happy in college and make friends. The last thing she’d want for Santana is for her to be lonely or alone – they’re different things, she thinks – but then, another part of her, a jealous part that sometimes surges up and she can’t fight it, hates that any of this is happening. She hates that she clicked to see who those other people Santana friended on Facebook were. She hated how her heart clenched up when she realised they were all girls. The thing she hates the most? The fact that she looked at their names – Hannah Altman, Zoey Green, Elaine Maxwell, Angela Robbins, Jordan Thomas – and then at their pictures, too curious to resist. They're pretty, and popular, and smart, not in high school, and not hundreds of miles away. They're right there with Santana, at practice, in her classes, in her life, in a way that she isn't anymore.

She wishes the world would stop turning for just a little while, or that she could stop time. Then, the four hours and hundreds of miles between them wouldn’t matter, and she could go and visit whenever she wanted. There’d be no arguments with her parents about gas money or the price of bus tickets. It can’t stop, because of tides and the moon and gravitational pull, but it’s a nice idea. She has a lot of nice ideas these days. She did well for a while, coming in with her grades from summer school and knowing she wouldn’t be totally alone because of Tina and Sugar – Santana told them to look after her on the day she left – and the other Cheerios, but she wasn’t ready for all the other little things she’d miss. Things like walking the long route to class so they have longer together; meeting up at their lockers whenever they need to switch books and sneaking kisses; getting picked up from her classes; passing notes to each other with love hearts and cartoons of Lord Tubbington on them; sharing pudding at lunch; just _being_ together. Now she takes different routes; there’s someone else with Santana’s locker and they haven’t even spoken. She’s too busy trying to concentrate to pass notes, and she mostly eats lunch with Blaine and Tina, because no one cares about their win anymore.

It’s just not the same without her. She’s not the same.

Being without Santana is tiring. Not the tiredness she gets from back-to-back Glee, Cheerios, and dance classes, it’s the kind of tired where you’re so far gone you can’t even sleep. Ever since school started back up, one day just blurs into the next. All she has is her phone and her laptop for company and to help her keep the connection between her and Santana alive, but it’s already fading, faster than either of them wants it to. Santana’s changing; see, bit by bit each time they speak. Sometimes, it feels like the Santana she fell in love with – that she loves – is just in her head, made up. She sees more of dream Santana than the real one.

It’s scary, and she sees that fear in Santana’s eyes too. It’s scary because there are gaps in their conversation, and she knows less about Santana’s life than she has before. Santana knows less about her life too. Santana’s in a new place, with new people, learning all kinds of new things. There are new people and new things for her too, and it’s getting harder to talk about. She doesn’t like to think that Santana hides things from her – even though she’s used to it, because Santana always has, in some way – or that she’s holding her back. That’s not why she made her go to Louisville after all their arguments about it. She made her go because Santana deserves to do more, to have more, to _be_ more. Getting Santana out of Lima is the one thing she’s done right in all this mess, even if it’s breaking her heart to get through it.

Everyone in Glee and Cheerios has tried to help her – to step in and fill that big space in her life where Santana should be – but they just can’t. She can still feel where Santana should be. She feels the lack of her. Everywhere. All the time. She misses Santana. She _really_ misses her, but she thinks that there should be a better word for what she feels than ‘miss’ because it’s too small a word for something that makes her feel too many things too deeply. She’s always missed her somehow, because she wasn't truthful for such a long time. There was distance between them. Santana gave half of herself when she gave all of herself, even when it wasn’t a good idea to, and it meant Santana got even more scared and pushed her away and hurt her without meaning to. She’s only had all of Santana for a year, and now she's not here and real distance is a lot once than distance because of feelings. The gap is much harder to close, and it’s getting bigger ever day, even though they’re staying in the same places.

Santana’s not to her left at any given moment in time. She has to shove her hand in her jacket pockets or occupy them with pom-poms to make up for the fact Santana’s not there to hold it. Her sheets are fresh, but they don't smell like Santana, or Santana’s mom’s laundry soap. She doesn't have sweet lady kisses, soft sweet nothings, or the deepest brown eyes she’s ever seen inches from her face. She knew it would be hard, everyone _says_ that – her mom, her grandma, her loudmouth boy-chasing cousins – but what no one’s telling her is how to deal with it with phone calls, texts and Skype aren’t enough. She needs rules, she needs a plan, like Rommel or Mountbatten or that Sun Tzu guy. People need to stop telling her it’ll be OK or dismissing her like she’s being silly because it’s puppy love, it’s a phase, it’ll pass, she’ll find someone new and forget. It’s not puppy love, it’s not a phase and it _won’t_ pass. She doesn’t want anyone new; she just wants Santana. She’s only _ever_ wanted Santana.

_Santana Lopez is unavailable._

She slams her laptop closed, and tosses her phone, hearing it land with a dull thud on the carpet, not bothering to look where it lands. Lord Tubbington can scratch it up for all she cares. It’s just something else that reminds her of what she can’t have. Burying herself further in her covers, she squeezes her eyes closed, forcing herself to hold in her latest batch of tears. There’s a soft rapping on the door, then the sound of it brushing against the carpet as it slowly opens. She tenses, her heart suddenly in her mouth because it might be Santana. She waits, lying completely still, not making a sound, because she doesn’t want to be disappointed when it’s not.

“Brittany?”

She lets out a long sigh. It’s not Santana, it’s her dad instead, and she’s still disappointed, but she feels guilty too.

“I don’t want to talk. I’m not hungry. Please leave me alone,” she spits out, frustrated. It doesn’t sound half as loud as she wanted.

“It’s mac and cheese, and strawberry ice cream. I made your favourite,” he says, softly, ignoring what she said completely. “Can’t have you wasting away.”

There’s a vague tinkling noise, like a cup or a spoon, and she hears her dad sigh as he sets the tray of food down on her nightstand. Through the small gap she left herself to breathe, she watches him tidy up a little, putting the milk glasses she uses during Skype on to her desk along with her laptop, and the empty juice boxes into the wastepaper bin. The mac and cheese smells good. She’s starving, her stomach’s been growling away for a while, but she won’t eat it, at least not while he’s still in the room. Maybe they’ll listen to her after a few days of this. Maybe someone other than Santana or Mr Schue or Miss Pillsbury will take notice of her and care.

When the bed dips and he sits down, she doesn’t move an inch.

“Tink, come on,” he pleads, reaching for her covers. “Let me look at you.”

Tink. She was always Tink as a little girl. Daddy’s girl, running around their old house in Columbus in her fairy wings back when Chrissy was still in her mom’s belly. He hasn’t called her that since she screwed up her ankle last year and he sat all night with her and Santana at the hospital until Dr Lopez came and checked her out. He can’t call her that anymore. That girl is gone. She grips tight from the inside, because once he sees what a mess she’s in, that’s it. She’ll just cry and cry and she’ll never stop, even when there’s nothing to cry with, and she’ll just get that weird sick feeling instead that’s worse than actually feeling sick, because you don’t get to throw up so there’s no relief at the end.

“Please leave me alone,” she repeats, half muffled by her pillow.

“Brittany, honey, this is no good. It’s not _healthy_ ,” he sighs, softly touching the top of her head. “Mom and I are worried sweetheart. She took Chrissy to dance class, so I thought we could chat maybe?”

Not healthy. That’s all she heard. She’s heard that a lot about her and Santana, that they’re ‘not right,’ and ‘not normal,’ from all kinds of random people, mostly rude, mean people who voted against Mr Hummel, and didn’t think that Reggie Salazar was wrong when he leaked that tape, but never from her dad. Her dad loves Santana; she’s part of their family. He knows what Santana means to her, or at least, she thought he did. The same anger she felt toward JBI surges up, right from her toes and she wants to scream.

Her hands close into fists and she waits, because sometimes, silence says more than words.

“Miss Pillsbury called this afternoon.”

The weight of his words hangs above their heads for a moment. Her stomach drops. They know. They know everything. She’ll be grounded, her laptop will get taken away, or her TV or her phone or all of them. It’s enough to make her move, because she can’t take losing anything else. Slowly, she pushes back the covers, and swipes at her face, sitting up and hugging her knees, avoiding his gaze.

“Oh Britty,” he looks at her with sad, sad eyes, just like Santana’s, reaching into his jeans pocket for a his handkerchief. She climbs over the covers to get it, sitting on the edge of the bed with him, pushing her hands into the pockets of Santana’s Cheerios sweatshirt. She’s worn it so much; it smells like her instead of Santana now.

“I’m sorry about Jacob. I didn’t mean it! I’m just … it’s just… ” she shakes her head, her explanation disappearing into a sob.

“I know, sweetie,” he soothes, pulling her into a hug. “I know. Things got on top of you. I know you’ve been struggling, Tink. Daddy always knows.”

She’s too old to be called Tink and she’s too old to call him daddy, just gives into it for a while, sobbing into his shirt, clinging to him tight, because that’s where the relief is. She was wrong. He _does_ know. He _does_ care.

“But,” he begins, with just the faintest edge of warning, “you can’t treat people like that. We didn’t bring you up that way.”

“I know,” she replies, barely lifting her head.

“You’ll make things right with Jacob, I know that. I also know that you’re gonna be fine in class this year. You’ve been working hard and now with the tutoring offer, you’ll do it this time. Mom and I know you will.”

It’s the first time they’ve really talked about her failing, they sort of talked a lot – like how Santana talks around things she doesn’t want to talk about – but never like this. When she pulls away to look at him, he looks so confident and so convinced. She wants to believe him. She wants to believe him badly, but there’s a nagging doubt at the back of her mind that says she’ll fail again. She wishes would quiet, but all it seems to do is get louder with each passing day.

“I miss her, Dad.”

There. She said it aloud. Finally. She lets go of a long breath, feeling better immediately.

The soft smile on his features disappears, and he looks sad again. “I know. How could I not?” he chuckles, hugging her again and kissing the top of her head. She feels bad, because she’s been kind of selfish. “I get it, Britty, I do. Most people, they have a best friend and then they have boyfriend or a girlfriend or whatever. But, you, you got that in one person instead.”

“And it,” she gulps for air, looking down at the handkerchief, “ _sucks_ when they go and leave you behind.”

“No,” he pauses, waiting until she looks up before he carries on, “it means you’re incredibly lucky. Some people take all their lives to find what you and Santana have, and even then, they don’t get it.”

She’s just gapes for a second, replies half forming before they die on her tongue. “It’s real, Dad. I love her. I love her so much.”

He nods. “I never thought otherwise. You know, it hasn’t been _that_ long since I was in college waiting on buses and standing in telephone boxes for hours on end. I didn’t have all this fancy stuff!” he waves around airily, smiling. “You might wanna pick up your phone though.”

“Oh, yeah,” she looks down sheepish, lurching forward to pick it up, more than a little relieved to find the screen is still intact.

“Because, you know, you might wanna call Santana.”

She turns back to him, confused. “I already tried to –”

He’s holding a ticket in his hand. A bus ticket.

“So she’s ready, for when you visit this weekend.”

For a second, she thinks she’s dreaming and wants to slap herself awake, and then she can’t breathe, and she’s crying again, but for a good reason, and it’s all too much to take in.

“Really?! Oh my God!” her voice breaks weirdly high, and she bursts out laughing.

“Really,” he echoes, grinning as he passes the ticket to her. “I was sick of seeing my Tink so sad, so I talked to Mom and we agreed that you can go,” he pauses, making sure she’s listening. “This can’t be every week, and given what happened with Jacob today, I almost got it refunded. _Almost._ I think you’ve been punishing yourself enough.”

“Thank you! Thank you! I love you!” she squeals, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. “Both of you! Everyone! Oh my God! She’s gonna be so excited! I get to meet Leigh and everything!”

Her mind is racing with the possibilities of it all. Where they can go, what they can do, and the fact they’ll have almost three whole days together if she can sneak out of class early to pack and get a jump on things.

“You’re welcome honey,” he hugs her tight. “Tell Santana I said hey.”

“I will! I will!”

She’s dialling Santana’s number before her dad is even out the door, pacing between her bed and the window waiting for Santana to pick up, shaking with nerves and excitement.

_“Hey beautiful. I was just thinkin’ bout you! You must be totally psychic, we’re on a break. My legs are killing me. Wind sprints. Ugh.”_

“Hey,” she replies, barely able to contain herself.

Wherever Santana is right now is ridiculously loud. There’s a Beyoncé song playing in the background and lots of talking. Oh, she’s still at practice, but it means that everyone else heard Santana say that too. She falls back on to the bed, practically swooning, clutching at her half heart pendant with her free hand. Whenever she touches it, it makes her feel closer to Santana, magically closing the distance between them.

“Are you busy this weekend?” she tries to keep her voice calm and even, but hopes she’s loud enough to be heard. Everything in her is screaming to tell Santana all at once.

_“One second, Britt. Let me just go outside, I can’t hear you.”_

She stays on the line, listening as Santana politely says ‘excuse me’ a bunch of times, before doors swing loudly open. It sounds like the heavy fire escape doors on the gym at school. Then, there’s gravel crunching, and Santana’s back again.

_“Still there, B?”_

“Still here,” she lets out a little laugh.

_“Good. Where was I? Oh, yeah, weekend. I was thinking about ditching the Sorority party thing I told you about and just coming home early. I had enough of that bitchy power play bullshit at school.”_

That’s it, she can’t keep it in any longer.

“Well, you don’t have to, because my parents got me a bus ticket. I’m coming to see you.”

She actually _hears_ Santana’s breath hitch on the line, and her reply comes out in a high-pitched jumble of “Seriously?” and “Holy shit!” and “Oh my God!” and “I can’t fucking wait!” She can’t help but laugh when Santana loses it completely and all she can hear is the crunching gravel because Santana’s jumping up and down screaming like she won the lottery. It’s adorable, and God, she’s never loved her more than right this very second.

Four sleeps, and they’ll be back together. Four sleeps and Santana is hers again.


	10. Too Close [Santana]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"She always used to think that people were being overly dramatic when they said their heart ached for someone, but she knows the truth of it now."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For story notes see [Chapter One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/738503/chapters/1374571). Thank you, as ever, to [cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com) for her beta skills and cheerleading. This was a hard chapter to write, but this wouldn’t be true to Brittany and Santana’s story if I didn’t tell the sadder parts of that tale too. Click [here](https://24.media.tumblr.com/747a21553397fa2b87f2931bbe4fae53/tumblr_n3op35kTiC1txkikoo3_1280.jpg) to see the face claims of featured secondary characters.

***

_I don't want to hurt you but I need to breathe_  
 _At the end of it all you're still my best friend_  
 _But there's something inside that I need to release_  
 _Which way is right?_  
 _Which way is wrong?_  
 _How do I say that I need to move on?_  
 _You know we're heading separate ways_

_***_

She’s happy to be back in Lima. It’s not something she’d ever thought she’d say, let alone mean, but it’s true. The second she pulled up outside her house with a bag full of laundry and a long weekend’s worth of promise, she felt better. It’s been so manic; she needed the breathing space, and Brittany’s visit was far too long ago.

That weekend was a blessing and a curse. A blessing because they had so much fun, and she was ridiculously happy the whole time. She loved showing Brittany off to people, introducing her to the other Cards girls, and showing her around all the cool places on campus; and Leigh and Lindsay made this huge fuss of them both the entire weekend time. They even got the dorm to themselves. A curse because it went lighting fast, and she was just getting used to waking up with Brittany again – even though the bed was really too small for the both of them – when Brittany’s dad drove back up to get her and take her back to Lima. Like last time, the goodbye was drawn out, because Mr Pierce decided to shout the four of them dinner and wanted a mini campus tour too.

The comedown, and separating from her all over again was even worse than the first time. She needed Leigh and Lindsay that night. They got drunk on cheap vodka, ate their body weight in ice cream, and Lindsay played DJ via her laptop. All Amy Winehouse and Adele songs were banned.

One slipped through the net, and as soon as opening bars of ‘Someone Like You’ started up, she lost it.

Somehow, she missed Brittany even more after that.

Time is what she needs right now, just to forget about game days, Cards routines, reading and assignments and the constant pressure of being pulled in fifteen different directions. Time with Brittany, time with her mother, just time, because she powered through her last paper and read ahead so it didn’t matter about skipping classes. Coach Michaels likes her – just about the only member of the teaching staff who does, it seems – and she’s pulling above average so, it’s all relative. She had to do something to divert her attention away from Brittany, and that something seems to be writing about Toni Morrison, and the social impact of postcolonial literature.

The familiarity of everything is nice; nowhere near as stifling as it once was, but maybe that’s just the distance talking or maybe she’s just appreciating little things she used to take for granted. Little things like the fact she can stretch out in a bigger, warmer bed because Brittany is in it with her, and they’ve had three nights of amazingly good sex that she was craving to the point of aching. Like the lazy kisses they share for a solid hour before Brittany has no option but to get up for school. Like watching Brittany brush her teeth and put on her Cheerios uniform in a half dorky half sexy reverse striptease while she lays in bed. Like going into the Lima Bean and all she has to do is nod at Jeremy, the skinny hipster barista and it gets her a caramel latte and Brittany a peppermint hot chocolate, because he just _knows_ them and their weakness for sugar and syrup when it’s cold out. Like knowing shortcuts to get through the heavy traffic and dropping off Brittany at school and giving her serious cool points because she has a hot girlfriend who’s in college and drives a fucking brand new Prius. It’s a graduation present from her father, seemingly convinced that a year old Lexus wasn’t going to cut it on the mileage front. That little bitch Kitty’s face was classic, so jealous she was neon.

She doesn’t do grandstanding often where Brittany’s concerned – what they do is their business, no one else’s, she doesn’t need to prove how much she loves her by eating her face off in public – but their kiss in the parking lot was longer than usual, in full view of everyone. It’s like she has to squeeze in as many kisses and touches – needlessly sometimes – as she can while she still has Brittany within reach, so it’s not so terrible when she’s gone again.

Just when she was about to drive away, Brittany turned back and smiled wider than she’d seen her do in months, blowing her a kiss before practically skipping off to catch up with Sugar and Tina. Small victories. Brittany’s trying so hard, and she’s so proud of her. She reminds her of it, whenever she can, loving when Brittany comes back to her with grades and news again in between all the McKinley gossip, and she’s glad, because for a while early on, she could sense that Brittany was shutting down and hiding things from her. Maybe she still is hiding things, but she wants to think that Brittany’s just settling instead – not as lonely as she was because she’s making friends new and that’s good; she’s happy about it except for Kitty, but she knows that’s kind of a necessary evil – growing used to her not being there all the time, never entirely comfortable, but accepting of it anyway.

_Brittany S. Pierce became friends with Dottie Kazatori, Jake Puckerman, Marley Rose, Kitty Wilde and 4 other people._

In Lima, she doesn’t have to work so hard. She doesn’t have to pretend to be nice to people she doesn’t really like. Now the freshness of her college experience is starting to go stale, it’s less easy to play pretend when she talks to Brittany. She doesn’t know why, but she feels compelled to try and make stuff sound better than it is. They’ve both had their low moments, nights full of tears and regret, because it’s not fair they hurt like this. It’s not fair that Brittany’s hurting like this. When Brittany hurts, she hurts too – a real physical pain that sits square and heavy in her chest – even more than she expected to. She always used to think that people were being overly dramatic when they said their heart ached for someone, but she knows the truth of it now. It just keeps surging up and blindsiding her to the point she can’t focus on anything beyond feeling it. She knows Brittany feels it too. Brittany feels everything, twice as hard as everyone else. She comforts her with the same words every time she sees tears in her eyes soon to fall, but it feels more and more hollow.

She let Brittany think she was coping, because it was easier than telling her the truth. The truth being, she’s not coping that well either. She hasn’t lost it completely in front of her, not because she doesn’t trust her or feel safe enough, because Brittany is the only person she’s ever felt safe with, but because she knows it kills her, so she just stores it up for a quiet moment when they’ve wrapped things up. It always gets her at night. Brittany’s been the reason she stares up at the ceiling, wide-awake and puffy-eyed for years now. Except, now she has to try not to wake Leigh with her crying. The only thing that soothes her is listening to Brittany’s voice. Videos and pictures aren’t enough; they don’t let her feel close enough. Her voicemail storage is dangerously close to becoming full, but she can’t bring herself to delete any of them. Nothing’s right in her mind until she can hear every breath and slight shift in Brittany’s voice that signals when she’s happy.

_Good luck for the game today! Go Cards! Kick their asses! I love you!_

And when she’s sad.

_I hate this. I miss you so much, San. It hurts. Come back. I need you. I miss your arms around me. I miss waking up with you. I miss your sweet lady kisses. I miss being yours._

That sadness comes out on Skype, late at night, when they’re both tired, stressed, and beyond miserable. Brittany says sorry for failing for the millionth time, and then apologises for making her go to U of L at all. Brittany didn’t make her go anywhere, she went because she wanted to, and it felt like a good idea. Nearly six weeks in and she’s still restless, something’s still not quite right. She doesn’t regret not using her mom’s money to go to New York, because she thinks that the missing thing, whether she’s in Kentucky or Kathmandu will always be Brittany.

(Though, truth be told, if Brittany wanted her to join NASA and go to the moon with her she would.)

Brittany’s practically screaming at her that she wants to get out of Lima without saying a fucking word every time they look at each other. She knows that once they’re in a big enough place, they can both spread their wings and discover stuff together. The timing’s are all off now, but if she could’ve just stopped the world for a while, and hibernated with her somewhere to guide her through those last couple of steps to swing the GED while she saw out the semester at Louisville; they could’ve started fresh together in January, not a Lima Loser in sight.

She meant to go home and do laundry, but instead she just ended up driving around, running out of gas and options. By coming home, she hoped that the nagging – no, gnawing – restlessness she’s been feeling for a while now would lessen; the sharpness of it dulling immediately, but it hasn’t. If anything, she feels worse. She feels like a fraud. A fraud who doesn’t belong in Lima or Louisville. She doesn’t know where she belongs, and that’s the problem. They’ve both been trying so hard to make it work. She’s determined that they won’t end up becoming strangers to each other like Kurt and Blaine or Tina and Mike, hell, even Rachel and Finn. They can’t be one of those couples who just drift apart. They just _can’t._ She can’t imagine her life without Brittany in it.

She has a plan, a surprise, just to remind Brittany how much she loves her, because she doesn’t want her to forget, doubt it, or think what she feels has somehow lessened because they’re not in the same place anymore. First, for old time’s sake, she’s going to call Brittany to the choir room and sing for her; drafting in the band geeks, John, Tyler and Steven via Skype to help her make it sound good. Brittany’s on a Taylor Swift kick at the moment, so she’s been practising ‘Mine’ in the shower and when she’s alone in her room, Leigh safely out of earshot because she’d be railroaded into trying out for Cardinals Singers or Collegiate Chorale, but those days are well and truly over. Second, they’re going for lunch at Breadstix, she owes Brittany a do over after that poisonous little troll Kitty went and ruined their date night with her apocalyptic God-Squad-turned-Left-Behind bullshit; inadvertently planting all these _seeds_ in her mind about where things are going with her and Brittany now she’s in college. They were already threatening to bloom, and she’s utterly confused about things, but those things are getting harder and harder to ignore. The fact that Brittany is still very much struggling is the hardest thing of all.

All this stop-go, stop-go, and sitting in traffic has given her too much time to think. Herr mindset’s shifted from disgustingly happy and excited because she’s with Brittany again, to introspective and morose, because there are things she’s promised that she’s failed to deliver on. She wonders if Brittany can sense that she’s desperately fighting against pulling away, or if Brittany feels the same guilt whenever she has fun with someone who isn’t her. She feels like cloning herself sometimes, just to lessen pain of it. One of her could stay in Louisville while the other stays in Lima. No one would be upset. She wouldn’t have to keep saying no to all the stuff the other girls ask her to, because eventually, she knows they’ll stop. She won’t have to keep hearing the disappointment in Brittany’s voice whenever she can’t come home because she has too much work on or they’re stepping up training, because soon, Brittany will stop asking too.

If she could trust herself to, she’d talk to Quinn about this, just to get some perspective. They’re on good terms now. Yale is working for her; they’re past all that bitchy crap from high school and completely over trying to outdo each other. Though she’s not so great about taking her own advice, Quinn’s great about giving it to other people, and of course, there’s no need to explain most of this, because Quinn was there, witness for it all. She’s tried a few times, when they’ve been online at the same time, typing the message out and deleting it again hundreds of times, terrified she’ll type it in the window to Brittany instead by accident (one time, Leigh distracted her with an actual letter from Jason, and she almost did).

_Q, can I talk to you? I need some advice. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t stay here. It’s killing me being away from Britt. I can’t do this. I can’t keep hurting her._

Though she got close, she could never bring herself to press send. Pressing send would be admitting defeat somehow, but more that she and Brittany might be starting to unravel – slowly, stitch by stitch – and she can’t bring herself to. Even if there are little speeches forming in her head; speeches that sound suspiciously like heartfelt leads into something like a break up.

_I need to tell you something that I don’t know how to say._

Walking around here most of the morning has been strange. She’s been weirdly emotional checking out her and Brittany’s old haunts. First, she parked her car in the same spot by the gym under trees – screw the sap getting on her windshield – they’ve spent countless hours under those or in the backseat of her car, kissing for all they’re worth. Then, she walked to the running track and sat on the bleachers, half expecting to find Brittany there, already waiting. Most days, they’d just sit and talk, sprawled out across them, her head in Brittany’s lap. On other days, they’d sneak underneath those bleachers, make out and practically dry hump each other. She was terrified of being sprung, but they carried on anyway – all Brittany had to do was give her _that_ look and she was gone, putty in her hands.

There are lots of places in this school that look mundane, but are special in their own way. _BP <3 SL 4EVER_ is carved into the left leg of the last desk in what used to be Mrs Hagberg’s Home Ec room. A tiny heart with a B in it is scratched into one of the benches in Mr Lasky’s lab. Tuesdays will always mean sneaking chocolate pudding in secret and being second in line. Mr Kidney’s janitor closet and the smell of Pine-Sol will always make her feel a little bit horny. That musty cupboard should get some sort of award; just for the sheer amount of stuff she and Brittany managed to get up to in the tiniest space ever, surrounded by mops, buckets, and cleaning products. Brittany could never wait, and truth be told, neither could she. The parking lot was far too many steps away.

The scent of Pine-Sol is also about to make her cry.

She shakes her head, determined to pull herself together, because reunions and visits are supposed to give you warm and fuzzy feelings, not cold and _distinctly_ unfuzzy ones that are massively depressing. This isn’t very Santana Lopez behaviour, but then, the Santana that walked in four years ago and the one that came back today are very different people.

She’s waiting until the last second before she texts Brittany and finally heads to the choir room, because she’s not sure how she’s going to feel being in that room again. All this sappy, pathetic, rose-tinted bullshit will definitely pass, probably after she’s settled waiting for Brittany to arrive and looking at that horrendous terracotta tile on the back wall. Yes. It’ll be fine, she’ll be back to loathing it all again and not remotely thinking of doubling back and asking if Coach Sylvester really does need that assistant coach she’s always talking about. That is, until Brittany arrives of course, because Brittany made the room what it was: the place where the majority of her good high school memories live.

Any second, she expects Miss Castle to come around the corner and tear her a new one for not having a hall pass, or get one of Coach Sylvester’s death glares when she passes her office again, but there’s none of that. She has a visitors pass clipped to her that looks kind of swanky – she had to go to Figgins’ secretary, Ms Norton, to get it, because Mr Schue insisted. School security and all that jazz. Heels clicking, confident in a way she never has been roaming the hallways before, she can’t help but feel a little bit smug. She always thought that people who came back to school were losers – well, except maybe Finnocence because she called him being Mr Schue 2.0 years ago – but it’s not like that at all. It’s more like a celebration of achievement, that she didn’t get knocked up, expelled for starting fights or pull a Karofsky because she couldn’t stand to be in her own skin, desperate to peel it away at all costs, afraid of her own shadow. She sees that fear in the face of every freshman she walks past – with just a little sway of her hips, for fun – and she has the biggest urge to tell them life turns out fine, and high school is just a blip on the radar, but it sounds like something from one of _those_ PSAs Miss Pillsbury showed her on YouTube after the Reggie Salazar incident.

Her phone’s been buzzing on and off all the while she’s been in Miss Pillsbury’s office, but she hasn’t had a chance to check it. Between talking to her and Mr Schue, who were typically nauseatingly nice and full of praise for Brittany, and Coach Sylvester, who was surprisingly happy to see her, and seemed genuinely interested in how she’s doing – which was just fucking _weird_ – she’s lost over an hour. Even though she made it out alive before someone else accosted her, she’s at a bit of a loose end until Brittany gets out of class. Leaning against the locker that used to be hers, she’s feeling more than a little nostalgic. She roots around in her purse and finally finds her phone, expecting the messages to be from Brittany, because they still send ridiculously cute texts to each other all the time, even when she’s back home.

It’s not Brittany, it’s Lindsay, one of the girls from her English classes – they have the same schedule and in the same hall, so they’ve sort of become attached to each other. After Leigh, Lindsay is just about the only real friend she has at Louisville. Lindsay’s cool, and crazy clever – like Quinn clever – and has random theories about everyone and everything, and rarely shuts up, but she kind of loves her for it. Befriending people on the squad is mostly strategic so she doesn’t look a complete loser; they’re just acquaintances. There’s safety in numbers. That rule never changes, whether you’re in high school or not.

_Lopez, you owe me. Prof Ambrose totally noticed you weren’t here. Saved your ass, don’t worry. Told her you were sick. She bought it, luckily for you! I think she hasn’t recovered from your last paper. Remind me to copy from you all the freaking time, super brain! oxoxo Lindz._

She smiles to herself as she reads the bunch of messages that followed, hearing them in Lindsay’s Chicago accent, imagining her ninja texting under the table in class, keeping an eye on their professor all the while.

_This class is boring as shit without you. Everyone is just agreeing with each other. Chase Jones continues to be a complete jerk. Lame. The reading this week blows, FYI. Dry as all hell. Prof looks supremely bored because she doesn’t have you to do verbal sparring with._

_You’re either dead or getting laid. I hope it’s the latter, because I swear, you looked like you were about to die last week. I’ve never seen someone jog so much as you and Leigh. Marathon twins! It’s a coping mechanism right? No one likes running in spandex that much or are you just freakish?_

She chuckles at that one, because she and Leigh have put in some serious miles in the last couple of weeks: circuits around campus, speeding up and down the steps like they’re in _Rocky_ , crunches and box jumps in the gym until they can barely move. That Navy Seal assault course is more than doable now, and Brittany’s more than impressed with the results. She looks good _seriously_ good, even Coach Sylvester commented on it. As running partners go, Leigh’s pretty good, mostly because she’s the only other person save Brittany and Quinn who can actually keep pace with her, and remain relentlessly cheery with it. Sometimes that’s annoying as hell – like when they’ve pulled all-nighters, with Lindsay sleeping on their floor; all surviving on nothing but crappy filter coffee – and sometimes it’s the faintest reminder of Brittany and she just _needs_ to have it. Of course, she plays it off to Leigh and everyone else that it’s just to help with conditioning for cheer. It started out that way, because the pace of their practice is even more relentless than what Coach Sylvester put them through, so she had to seriously up her game to keep her spot, but it quickly turned into a way to stave off sexual frustration, no, sexual _hunger_.

It sounds terrible to think of it in those terms, because Brittany’s so much more to her than that, she always has been, even when she didn’t want to admit it, but she still finds that the hardest thing to cope with. She craves the physicality of loving her to the point she can’t think of anything else. Brittany’s skin, Brittany’s taste, Brittany’s touch, the look in Brittany’s eyes that tells her she’s everything to her. All things that Skype can’t give her, no matter how much they try to recreate it. Brittany’s fingertips can reach places her own just can’t, no matter how much she wishes they could go a little deeper and curl a little more. It makes her selfish and greedy and desperate like she used to be. Every time they’re united, it’s sloppy and graceless, and it takes her longer to wind down from that state and remember what it’s all supposed to mean.

Most of the time, all she has is words on a cell phone screen or jittery video on a computer one. It's not enough. She's tried to prepare herself for losing Brittany for so long. Imagined, in the darkest of her hours, when Brittany said she loved her back but couldn't love her yet, that she could sever the ties, and make the break. She was never strong enough, because the pull between them, that invisible thread, was buried deeper and tugged harder than she ever thought possible. It's the knowledge of being without her that she can't stand, of enduring this complete lack of her, like Brittany only exists in some other time. She can't take it any more, and she has no one to blame but herself.

_Oh, shit, I forgot! Say hey to that ridiculously cute girlfriend of yours!_

She still hasn’t quite gotten over the fact no one flipped out when she said she had a girlfriend. Lindsay and Leigh just shrugged it off, and then lost their shit over all the pictures she has posted up on her side of the dorm while she died of embarrassment. The girls on the squad know because of that Reggie bullshit, and well, her tape with Brittany has apparently done the rounds, so she has to contend with leering and moronic comments from frat boys on a daily basis, but that’s nothing new.

_Taylor! Not dead. Got laid. A lot :P Thanks for not ratting me out. You, me and Hamilton go to Zanzabar or something? Gotta be a party somewhere. Time for Rosario to come out and play again?!_

_Thanks for that visual there. Oh Lo, you know the way to my heart, girl! Yes. Hamilton is in. No arguing._

She’s just about to put her phone away when it buzzes again, and the smile she’s had ever since she started reading fades rapidly.

_Zoey’s been asking about you again, she was loitering by the literary criticism stacks waiting for you until I set her straight, so to speak. I know you’re still kind of weirded out by the whole ‘energy’ moment, but I felt like it’s just that. A moment. Don’t beat yourself up. Seriously though, I think you dodged a bullet, Lo, she just wants fresh meat!_

Zoey Green. Zoey’s a problem. Zoey’s someone she keeps coming back to. The way Lindsay puts it, a ‘moment’ sounds so harmless, but it doesn’t feel harmless. It feels like it could wreck everything in her life and the blast would nuke everything within a two hundred mile radius. Once, she and Brittany were just moments too: glances across crowded rooms; pinky links; kisses for boys at parties when they were drunk off their asses on shitty keg beer; kisses when they weren’t drunk, just because they wanted to kiss; fooling around in bed during sleepovers because their boyfriends couldn’t cut it; falling in love; making love; waking up next to her and knowing it’s the only thing she wants to do every day for as long as she lives.

Moments can snowball into something else all too easily.

It’s hard; it’s really, really hard. There’s been temptation, and she’s been frank with Brittany about how shitty all of that makes her feel. Lindsay’s boyfriend Sean goes to Brown, but they’re so chilled and relaxed about everything, that they just kind of meet in the middle and do their own thing the rest of the time. Openness seems to work for them. Leigh and Jason seem to manage perfectly well too, and he’s in the middle of fucking Moscow or something. They seem so solid and settled that she envies it, but then, Jason is older than they are, almost twenty-one, and Leigh has a promise-turned-engagement ring on her finger. Her life’s pretty much planned out: get her art degree, work in her mother’s interior design firm, and then marry Jason. She envies it, even if she knows that sometimes Leigh feels trapped by it. She envies it, because she still doesn’t have a plan at all, and as lovely as split heart pendants are, they don’t carry the same weight as a ring.

Brittany will have a ring one day, and she’ll be the one to give it to her.

Zoey’s more of symbol than someone she actually wants to chase. Lindsay’s sort of right. It was something and nothing. Nothing because, well, she’s in a relationship, not dead from the neck up (or indeed the waist down), Brittany’s never been shy about saying someone’s pretty or cute, and she encourages it in her too. Something because it means this whole liking girls thing is, well, girls plural, not just _a_ girl. It’s fine to be attracted, she’s _allowed_. It’s normal, it’s healthy, but she just can’t get her head around it. Attraction is odd. Having that weird, fluttery feeling that migrates from her belly to her chest and back again around girls who aren't Brittany is even weirder. Zoey’s confusing, because she’s pretty in that quirky, hipster sort of way that she’d usually scoff at, but she’s strangely drawn toward. Miss Walker – Avery, she can’t get used to calling faculty members by their first name – Professor Ambrose’s TA is _really_ confusing, because she’s pretty in that devastating sort classic way like Audrey Hepburn; all neat dresses, blazers, and updos with curly tendrils, and a sweet soft voice that reminds her so of Brittany. When she heard her speak for the first time in class, she almost got whiplash. She finds herself listening closer in her classes, and hanging back to open doors when Avery has too much stuff to carry.

She's curious, and she's tempted, but the balance never tips. There's always a stopping point, because she loves Brittany, and she'd never ever cheat on her or do anything to her like that – she'd die first – but she's terrified of a point in time where there's no stopping point and stuff just happens. It's just something else she’s confusing, because she's never looked at other girls, women, whatever, like that before. She's always been about Brittany, she still _is_ all about Brittany, but it's like someone's opened some weird door in her head and she can't shut it. Her world’s getting bigger than it used to be, and she feels even more lost in it. Brittany used to anchor her and keep her safe, but she can’t depend on that anymore. She can’t ask that of Brittany anymore.

With a sigh, she turns the corner, seeing John and the guys already outside the choir room. John waves his drumsticks at her and smiles. She smiles back, cautiously. He’s the only one apart from that cool bass player guy, Scott, that she’s ever spoken to. He’s witnessed some pretty huge moments in her life, and now, he’s going to witness another one. Looking at her phone to check the time, she sees that there’s only ten minutes until the end of the period, so she she texts Brittany to let her know where she is.

_Hey baby, come to the choir room when the bell goes_

She stalls, because she doesn’t know how to finish the text. In the end, all she adds is six kisses and a letter S, needless, because Brittany will know who it is immediately. They’ve always done it though, and she wants to hold on to tiny little things like this, even if it does feel like her entire life, her entire self, is circling the drain. She swallows hard, marching into the choir room with purpose. Everything is ready, just as planned.

Settling on the back row out of habit, nostalgia, and comfort, she glances across, and sees Steven, all nervous excitement as he goes into position, hiding in the adjoining room until she gives the signal and the boys come in to accompany her. She feels sick. Her heart is somewhere in her stomach. It feels like the very first time she walked in here with Brittany as Quinn’s back up so she could get into the club keep tabs on her moron boyfriend, and be spies for Coach Sylvester. She wishes she could rewind the clock to that practically golden time in sophomore year when she and Brittany were the worst kept secret ever, and no one took any notice of them.

This is stupid. How the hell can she do this to her? She doesn’t even _want_ to break up with her. The last time she had stuff prepared in her head like this was when she told Brittany she was in love with her. That hasn’t changed one little bit, she’ll be in love with Brittany until she’s dead in the ground, but what’s the use of having a girlfriend who’s only a girlfriend twenty percent of the time? That’s not a real girlfriend. That’s not what Brittany deserves and that’s not what she wants to be. Her phone buzzes again, and she almost jumps out of her skin.

_Ooh, this is totally your surprise, isn’t it? :) B xxxx_

_Yes. It’s just for you. Special. xxxxx_

She closes her eyes and presses send, feeling shitty and duplicitous. She’s been trailing this surprise for days, acting like it’s going to be one of those nice, big romantic gestures that Brittany is a total sucker for. At one point, it was. Now she’s not sure what it is. Right now, it feels like she either has to marry Brittany – in whatever damn state they can be, she’s not solid on that, and that makes her a bad lesbian or something, but she’s still very much in training on that score – or, well, break up with her.

“Hey,” John calls, popping his head around the door and whisper-shouting to her, “I see Brittany.”

She just nods, seeing Tyler hovering behind John with a ridiculous cheesy grin on his face. Her heart picks up and her body stiffens in response. “Cool, cool.”

“You ready?” he asks, smiling again, obviously trying to reassure her. “Who doesn’t love a little serenading, huh?”

“Never too early for some Taylor Swift, right?” she plays along surprisingly well, and it makes her feel even worse.

Every note she sings is going to ring hollow. Every sentiment she’s borrowing will feel false, and it wasn’t meant to be this way.

“You’re gonna make the rest of us look bad!” he laughs, and then disappears out of sight, taking Tyler with him.

The next face she sees is Brittany’s smiling at her though the glass, totally unaware and utterly unprepared, and she knows she had to do it. She has to break up with her, even if it breaks her heart too. It will. They can’t stay in this limbo. That’s it. That’s the only answer. That’s the good thing. The kind thing. The adult thing to do.

_I will always love you the most._


	11. Whispering [Santana]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“She’s not here to make friends or even hook-up, she’s here to get monumentally wasted so she can forget the latest in a long line of increasingly poor decisions.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For story notes see [Chapter One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/738503/chapters/1374571). The penultimate chapter, and a difficult one to write that hopefully sheds some light on why Santana – or rather this Santana – behaves as she does, even when that behaviour isn’t all that likeable. Thank you, as ever, to [cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com) for her beta skills and cheerleading. Click here to see the face claims of featured secondary characters.

***

_Autumn shades, calm my shaking hands_  
 _Tender, cool breeze, keeps me where I am_  
 _Suddenly hearing, when I want to scream_  
 _Oh, please just cut me down, leave me in my dreams_

***

_Brittany S. Pierce is no longer in a relationship with Santana Lopez._

The end of her world in twelve words. She remembers the immediate flurry of texts, calls and notifications, her phone blowing up every two seconds. All of them were negative. All of them either said she was an idiot (Sugar), beyond stupid (Tina), and she seriously needed her head examined (Puck). Everyone picked sides quickly. No one was on hers, rallying around Brittany instead. Deep down, she’s always known that if it weren’t for Brittany, she’d be alone, and now she has proof. She’s hurting, but none of her so-called friends seem to care about that. It’s sad to realise how little faith they really had in her. After all, she’s the bitch, the bad girl, and the heartbreaker. She just proved everyone right and did what they all secretly knew she would. It was just a matter of time. Even now, when she looks at the comments underneath the status from Kurt, Quinn, Mercedes, and Dave _fucking_ Karofsky of all people - expressing a genuine sadness and shock she didn’t expect – it doesn’t feel real. It’s like the whole sorry mess, from the first earnest note of ‘Mine’ to their last achingly bittersweet kiss never happened. Like one of those out-of-body experiences people talk about on TV chat shows. Someone else did it. An evil twin or a doppelgänger pod person, because she clearly wasn’t in her right mind.

All dressed up, with no real idea of who it’s for, she’s in the middle of a textbook college experience, in the name of “getting back on the horse.” She’s in some club she’s never heard of, but it’s the kind of place she needs right now. Somewhere away from campus and all the pressure. It’s always been there, but she’s even less able to cope with it than before. The lights are that hideous too bright shades of red and green. The music is too loud and she can barely hear herself think, but she looks hot as all hell – her dress is Brittany’s favourite, and it clings in all the right places. Everyone seems to be looking – their eyes glued to her ass, her boobs or both – and trying to get her attention somehow, so she’s yet to pay for a drink and even then, they’re cheap, and she can take the leering, the sleazy, smooth-talking boys, and the soft-eyed, curious girls. It’s perfect, harmless, even if it feels dangerous. She’s not here to make friends or even hook-up, she’s here to get monumentally wasted so she can forget the latest in a long line of increasingly poor decisions.

Life really needs to come with a manual, and even if it did, she thinks that maybe some of the sections in hers – sections where you don’t go back on your word and you break things off with perfectly good girlfriends who you’re still hopelessly in love with – got lost along the way. Leigh, Lindsay, and some of the Cards girls they came with are somewhere in the mass of people on the dancefloor below her, while she’s standing on the atrium above with lots of other people not dancing and not talking, nursing something day-glow and alcoholic that Lindsay shoved into her hand a while ago with the promise that she’d “feel better.” She doesn’t feel better. If anything, she feels worse. There’s only one thing, one person, one beautiful, amazing person that she never truly deserved, who can make this better. Her name is Brittany Susan Pierce, and she’s hundreds of miles away, living a life that she’s no longer a real part of.

If Brittany were here now, they’d both be down there with Lindsay and Leigh, in the centre of it all. They’d be dancing, pressed close and listening to the dirty, dirty things Brittany’s saying in her ear, getting more and more turned on. She’d just breathe her in and they’d kiss, and they’d keep kissing and they’d end up fucking each other in the bathroom – fast, playful, and the right side of rough … _God_ she needs to be drunker than she is. She needs not to be craving sex, craving Brittany and that delicious body that she still dreams about kissing every inch of – vivid, vivid dreams that leave her wanting and desperate – or craving Brittany’s touch because it unwinds her and destroys her in the best way. She can’t switch her brain off. She can’t seem to stop turning things over and trying to rewrite it all. She needs things to start to fade, for Brittany to fuzz around the edges in her mind so she has to make things up and pretend. Pretend so it leaves her full of that warm fuzzy feeling people get when they think about their first love. All she has is sharp shards of feeling, and regret, such deep regret, because she’s let her first love go – grudgingly, clinging on, their last kiss lingering until the final second – but let go all the same.

When she looks back on this, with clarity she doesn’t currently possess, she’ll blame Finn Hudson. Until Finn, and Grease, and Rizzo, she was fine. If she were smarter, like Quinn and Rachel, she’d dissociate herself from him completely, because he has a habit of knowing exactly what to do in order to ruin her life while actually not doing much of anything. She’s adjusting to being without Brittany in all senses of the word, for the very first time. All those wishes her father had for her to stand tall on her own too feet had finally come too fruition. OK so, one day has pretty much blurred into the next, and have become weeks before she’s really noticed – because she’s said yes every time Hannah, Angela, Jordan, or anyone else from the squad has invited her somewhere, and the only way to get through it is to drink; because she needed something to numb the hurt and let go.

_Hannah Altman @HandyAltman  
Work hard. Play hard. @snix_lo knows how it works #messy_

People call these kinds of things downward spirals. She’s seen it before, when Quinn had her meltdown after Beth and all the adoption shit, but maybe this is worse, because she’s aware of it. She’s engineered it. It’s not a downward spiral; it’s a free fall, and she feeling every degree of the drop, no matter how much she wants not to. Coach Michaels has bawled her out for her sloppiness more times recently than the entirety of her McKinley career, and she’s _kind_ of forgetting to read things for class – the ones she doesn’t skip or forget about entirely – and doing stuff that’s in violation of all the terms of her scholarship, but still, she’s been doing it. Living without Brittany, and that’s been the biggest shock, that it’s doable. She’s survived this far. The second she picked up Finn’s call, distracted by Lindsay as they waited in line to get lunch, it all came crashing down, and with it, the neat façade she’d created to hide the fact she was the furthest from fine she’s ever been. Fine is in another hemisphere. Fine is what she says on the phone to her mom whenever she calls to make herself feel better.

_To: s.m.lopez@louisville.edu_  
 _From: a.e.walker@louisville.edu_  
 _Subject: Late Assignment Submission_

_Santana,_

_As of an hour ago, your essay for Professor Ambrose’s class is late. I know this isn’t like you, and you’ve delivered consistently to a high standard in the past. This, in conjunction with your sporadic attendance in the past month, is giving Professor Ambrose and myself cause for concern. You’re one of the brightest students in the class, we want to keep you._

_If you’re finding your load too heavy, and need an extension, please come and see me in Professor Ambrose’s office during her hours (anytime after 3pm is fine). I’m here to help you; it’s part of my job. We can work this out. As long as we have something arranged by the end of the day, it’s fine. If not, I’ll have to give you a zero on the paper, and I really don’t want to do that._

_Please reply as soon as you can._

_Avery._

Her first zero is hers.

She didn’t reply, skipped class, and came out instead, because she’s fucked anyway, even if she could talk Avery around. They’ll kick her off the squad soon, she’s certain, so what’s the point of any of busting her ass for nothing? She’s still not entirely sure what she’s doing here. She’s got nothing to keep her, not really, except weird loyalty to Leigh, Lindsay, the Cards girls, and most of all to Brittany. She promised she’d make this work. She’s promised Brittany a lot of things, and broke those promises straight after. It’s disgusting, and pathetic, and she hates it. If only she could cut away all the parts of her that want to wreck and ruin and destroy. If she did that, there wouldn’t be much of her left. Brittany says she’s a good girl with a good heart pounding away strong inside her chest. Her heart is one organ out of seventy-eight, surrounded by blood and tissue and two hundred and six bones. A good heart is worth nothing. A good heart breaks too easy.

Lindsay is certain the best way to get over Brittany is to hook-up with someone else, because she’s in college and there are “cute girls everywhere.” There are, and she’s finally letting herself notice them, but she keeps being drawn to a very particular type. Every girl who catches her eye is a tall, sweet-natured, blue-eyed blonde. She can’t help it. Lindsay’s right about Zoey too. The girl is turning into restraining order material. At first, she’ll admit that the attention and the flattery was nice, a distraction from the workload and the general stress of adapting to college, but now it’s just kind of creeping her out. Leigh and Lindsay have stepped in as bodyguards more times than she cares to count. The trouble is, no matter how cute all these girls are, there’s no one else she wants. Wanting anyone else wasn’t why she did this. At least, she thinks it wasn’t. Brittany wouldn’t believe her if she ever tried again to explain – in fact, she thinks that Brittany might never believe anything that comes out of her mouth again – but she never planned to unofficially break up. The second she saw how miserable, lonely, and angry Brittany was at their separation or more precisely, her leaving, she knew she had to do it. She knew she had to set her free. It's a cliché, a horrible, cheap cliché, but she had the best of intentions. She wanted to lessen how much Brittany's been hurting, but all it's done has gone and made everything twenty thousand times worse.

_Jordan Thomas @trickythoms  
Go Cards! We celebrated our win in style! @HandyAltman @snix_lo @EliMax @gigi_robb I love you bitches! #GreekRow_

She hates Finn, again, even if there’s less to justify than before, because all he did was pick the best person for the job. He didn’t know that dangling Rizzo in front of her was dangling Brittany too, and that by saying yes, she was waving the white flag and breaking her until then ironclad no contact rule. Until Grease, they hadn’t called, texted or Skyped. It was the best thing, the only way either of them could cope. The cut off was so swift, and so complete, that it felt like walking around without a limb. She wanted to see Brittany, she needed to see her, and once Lindsay and Leigh came along for the ride – because they’d fallen in love with Brittany the second they met her, and wanted to see where their story began – the whole thing snowballed. It made her giddy, excited, and hopeful, because it felt entirely possible they could get back together again.

Within seconds of clapping eyes on Brittany dressed as Cha-Cha, it reminded her, painfully, of what she’d lost. Being back at McKinley and seeing her again, well, it went differently to how she imagined things might be if they broke up – unofficial or otherwise. She couldn’t stand the fact that Brittany was being as kind and as good to her as she always has. She wanted Brittany to yell, scream and slap her hard across the face like she deserves. Brittany didn’t do any of that. Brittany was kind encouragement, and pride and sweetness and light. Brittany asked her to help with a stuck zipper on her Cha-Cha costume, and pulled her into the classroom that doubled as a fitting area and kissed her breathless instead. She didn’t stay for the after party, or the dinner at Breadstix. Even though Lindsay and Leigh were cool with it and wanted to because they got along so well with everyone, she was the one who couldn’t stay, because she couldn’t stand being around Brittany, and not being fully hers again.

It’s all or nothing. That’s the way it has to be for now.

They’re not very good at the whole not making out and just being friends thing, but that’s not new. They never really were _just_ friends. The tension between them always existed; she just didn’t know what it meant. It was just too much. Seeing Brittany talking to her, feeling more like Rizzo and less like herself than she ever has. She might’ve nailed that song, but it came at a cost. She showed everyone just how weak she truly is.

_Angela Robbins @gigi_robb  
Cards girls do it better! Fourth Street Live was fricken awesome! @EliMax @trickythoms @snix_lo are you alive?_

The drink is working its magic at last. She likes this part of being drunk, when she’s just buzzed enough, and she just wants to dance. Another couple of shots down, tequila, worm and all shared with Jordan and Hannah, swaying lazily to the music, this whole evening feels a better idea and she’s glad she came. She’s been with the others because she knew they wouldn’t ask questions. She’s sick of all the knowing concerned looks and the “are you OK’s?” The other cheerleaders don’t care enough to ask and she’s fine with that. She’s getting kind of numb to it now. All they know is she broke up with her girlfriend. They don’t worry when she gets another round of drinks or looks distant and sad. They don’t care at all, and stuff like that used to hurt, but it doesn’t anymore. She’s getting kind of numb to it now. Maybe.

Except, then she remembers how much she hates Taylor _fucking_ Swift, and her silly, annoyingly catchy little love songs, and she feels anything but numb. She pretends she’s listening to Jordan and Hannah, laughing and nodding in all the right places, only catching the odd word about Jordan’s douchebag boyfriend, that meathead jock that Hannah has a crush on who doesn’t even notice her. Their captain Elaine making out and practically dry-humping some random girl right in front of them, frat boys swarming and taking pictures on their phones. She’s only dimly aware when the flashes go off that she might be in some of those pictures too, adding to the countless others that are scattered around, fooling people into thinking she’s happy and having a good time. She used to be that girl: the show-off and the manipulator, who doesn’t care who gets hurt as long as she has fun and gets her way. Elaine’s still that girl. They’re kissing just because she likes it, and likes the attention even more. It’s nothing to do with things like love.

She’s the girl who loves. Who loved. Who was loved.

All she can think about is Brittany, and all she can really hear are those Taylor Swift lyrics; those syrupy-sweet, earnest lyrics that she still really believes, even now. It was meant to be sweet and reassure Brittany (and herself), but it unfolded into this emotional ambush out of nowhere, and she kind of regrets that, because there are kinder ways to say what she did than blurting them all out after singing to someone you’re still hopelessly in love with and you’d still like to call your girlfriend once you’ve said them. She still thinks of Brittany as hers. Somehow.

Most of all, she hates herself. The kind of hatred that’s bone deep. The kind that makes you want to claw off your own skin and start again to make another you that’s new, and different and better. She’s wished for that to happen a lot of times, but she’s never wished for it harder than in these last few weeks. Breaking up was an act of preservation. Not for herself, but for them. For what they are. For who they are. For, what they desperately want to be. Right now, she desperately wants to take it back. To let them be and grow into the people she knows they can be. They'll be the couple that makes it. Marriage, kids, a dog and fifteen cats, living in upstate New York, somewhere neat and suburban. She's imagined it so much she can taste it. So, why do it? Why tear that all down? Because she didn’t want to end up like Kurt and Blaine, or worse, Finn and Rachel.

They were all happy once, and it feels like a long time and no time at all since then. Happiness isn't something that's solid and lasts. It's just a feeling, a feeling that passes through you like air. Except with Brittany, it felt like more. It felt solid. She misses happy, but mostly, she just misses Brittany's kind of happy.

_Brittany S. Pierce is no longer in a relationship with Santana Lopez._

It still hurts. It wasn’t a clean break-up; it was a messy one, with loose ends that keep unravelling. She’s had to watch as Brittany’s rebuilt herself, hearing from Tina and Sugar how she’s on the Yearbook Committee and she’s back writing for _The Muckraker_ , making the best of it a typically Brittany way. Throwing herself into things and filling the void. She’s filling the void too, but in a less positive way. She’s always pushed the self-destruct button, but it’s never been quite this spectacular. Without Brittany, she’s got no boundaries, and no one to pull her back and stop her doing stuff she shouldn’t. She’s got no focus and nothing to keep her going. Her conscience is getting quieter every day. Either that, or she’s just stopped listening to what it has to say.

Lindsay gets the brave face, the girl who wants to have a good time and fuck what everyone else thinks. It’s the perfect distraction and Lindsay knows exactly what to do to make it happen. There’s no bullshit psychoanalysis, no questions, no berating her for all she isn’t doing. Lindsay just lets her be, certain this is just something that’s part of a bigger process. She’s not so certain. Leigh, well, Leigh is where the problem lies, because Leigh is the one who’s taken it all to heart and keeps watching her like a hawk, terrified she’ll do something stupid, like jump off the roof of their hall or just drink herself toward alcoholic poisoning oblivion. It feels like her liver’s floating right now, because she hasn’t eaten all day, so maybe she’s there. Leigh gets the girl who needs comforting in the dead of night, who’s depressed, lonely, and miserable and inconsolable, because she was the one who did the mature thing.

The mature thing has left her curled up in a ball on her bed, earphones in, with Coldplay blaring to shut everything out (mostly the sound of her choked sobbing). It’s not the pretty kind, like Brittany when they’d watch sad movies, and she's so lost in it that she doesn't even make a sound. It's the ugly, loud kind, where you can't think and can't breathe and can't _do_ anything but more crying. Except she never lets herself give in and cry. It gets bottled up instead. She doesn’t have right to cry. Not really. She's the one who broke Brittany's heart (and her own), wilfully, maybe even on purpose.

_Elaine Maxwell @EliMax  
Corrupting the yougins’ as usual this week. Captain showed ‘em how it’s done. Learned that @snix_lo is a very bad girl indeed! No pointers needed!_

She can’t help it, but she finds herself still wanting to text Brittany at random times of the day. Still needing to hear the voice messages Brittany left her at odd hours of the night. Brittany always seems to creep back into her thoughts then – if she ever really leaves. Everything that made them what they were happened at night. It always began the same way, with tentative touches in the dark, Brittany wordlessly testing her, coaxing her toward more than homework and crappy TV and sneaky sweet lady kisses until she was naked, and vulnerable and wanting. She always feels that way around Brittany, and she always will. There are lots of messages she finds strange comfort in, but there’s one that she rewinds and rewinds and rewinds, night after night, even though it tortures her because it isn’t any less true than when Brittany said it weeks ago, except she hears herself talking, speaking in Brittany’s voice instead.

_I miss waking up with you. I miss your sweet lady kisses. I miss being yours._

Her phone is in her hand now, and she’s teetering on the edge of dialling, even though it’s super late. It’s exactly what she needs now she’s getting to that peak place, where she’s happy and warm and relaxed. Brittany. She just needs to hear Brittany’s voice; soft and sweet and perfect and the most beautiful thing she’s ever heard. She just needs Brittany, she wants her, but she also wants them to have a life for themselves. So far, that life isn't really working out how she imagined.

Drifting away from Hannah and Jordan, not giving them anything beyond a “see you later,” they pull her back with something about texting an address and some Sorority thing she needs to come to because the night is “winding up,” and she nods along. It might be fun. They’ve been a few times now, and the drunker she gets, the easier everything else gets. She doesn’t know where it came from, but she has another drink in her hand, JD and coke, so it’s probably Hannah or Elaine because they know that’s her usual poison. The burn is hitting just right now, and she could go for a cigarette just to round things off before she goes to find Lindsay and Leigh again, but she’s meant to be giving up. Well, she tried, for a week after she got to Louisville, but it didn’t last, so she’s back to sneaking out and chain-smoking whenever she can.

She pushes through the mass of bodies to get to a higher spot, less steady than she was earlier. Her killer heels are living up to their name. Sinking down almost to her knees, she rests against railings further away from the line for the bar, with a finger in her ear to drown out the music. It doesn’t really work. Dialling is harder than it normally is, and the screen looks kind of blurry, but she gets there.

“Hey baby!” she frowns, not sure why her voice sounds all slurry and weird. She’s fine.

_“Santana? It’s really late …. Like one in the morning._

“Fuck,” she cringes, remembering. “I’m sorry, it’s like … you have school.”

Selfish. Selfish. Selfish. Brittany knows it too.

_“Where are you? I can hardly hear.”_

Brittany doesn’t sound too happy, but she does sound completely fucking adorable and kind of sexy, coz her voice is all sleepy and raspy.

She leans further against the railing, not really minding that it hurts. It’s cool on her back and she’s suddenly really hot, so it’s nice.

“This club in,” she practically yells, looking around for a sign, “I don’t know. The music is shitty… No one dances as good as you, Britt-Britt.”

There’s a rustling of bedclothes, and she hears Brittany breathe a “Jesus.” There’s only been one time when she’s heard that. During Rachel’s infamous party, when they all got completely trashed on those shitty wine coolers. She doesn’t feel nearly that drunk, but her limits have shifted a lot since then. Cards training isn’t just about drills.

_“Are you drunk?”_

“Little bit,” she laughs and has to push against the railing to sit right again. “Rosario helped!”

She feels it almost immediately. The crash is starting. No. She can’t cry now. She can’t be the weepy drunk girl again. No. Biting back the words on the tip of her tongue, she stays silent, but she hears the words all the same. Words that sound like ‘I love with all my heart,’ and ‘I'll love you until I'm dead in the ground.’

“I’m … sorry.”

She looks up at the ceiling, watching the patterns from the lights. They make her feel dizzy and her stomach lurches, full of that feeling right she gets before she knows she’s going to throw up, so she shuts her eyes again.

_“Are you OK?”_

She sighs. How can Brittany still care?

“No.”

It’s the first truth she’s told in a while.

_“Oh Santana … honey ….”_

Brittany sounds like she’s on the edge of tears. She should hang up now, because those words she can’t say are still there; close to falling out. They do, thick and fast.

“B, I miss you … I fucked up so bad. I’m a fucking idiot … I don’t deserve you … I was just trying to protect you, I didn’t mean it. I made a mistake.”

Once she’s started, she can’t stop, even though it’s not coming out right and there are words missing. People are looking at her, but it’s not the same as before. It’s not lust she sees; it’s confusion and pity instead. Maybe it was there all the time.

_“San, don’t. Don’t do this.”_

She carries on, her voice is dropping so Brittany can barely hear, making herself smaller.

“I didn’t want to hurt you anymore … You hurt so much because of me and it’s wrong, baby. It’s wrong …. I love you with all my fucking heart, you know? You’re my world. You’re everything. You’re fucking perfect and –”

She breathes out and realises that Brittany’s crying and that wasn’t what was meant to happen. Out of habit, and comfort, she traces the pendant around her neck, somehow hoping it’ll reach Brittany, or it’s like a magic talisman, and she’ll blink and be back in Lima right next to her. Before she can think of what to say, there’s hand on her shoulder and then her phone is snatched away. She’s just about to take a swing at whoever took it, when she sees that it’s Lindsay.

“Oh girl, no,” Lindsay shakes her head, holding the phone out of her reach. “We talked about this. No drunk dialling.”

“Hey!” she reaches for her, arms flailing wildly, but she’s not fast enough. She tries to stand up, but her legs feel weird, like they’re not really there. “Gimme that!”

“Hey, Brittany, it’s Lindsay. Are you OK? Yeah, she’ll be fine. We’ll take care of her, OK? I promise. Try not to worry. Get some sleep.”

“Britt! I’m sorry!” she calls, loud as she can. “Give me the fucking phone!”

Her phone goes into Lindsay’s jeans pocket instead, and she’s pulled up to standing. All the blood rushes to her head, and she feels strange; as light as air. Kind of invincible.

“I need to talk to her! You don’t understand!” she pleads, desperate.

“Not now. You’ll thank me, babe. You will,” Lindsay replies, trying to reason with her. "Come on Lopez, you’re not drinking anymore and we’re dancing some of this out, OK? No tears, you hear?”

There’s a very quiet voice in the back of her head that realises it’s a good idea. A rare good idea. So, she follows her, being lead by the hand and not really caring it’s happening. She’s missed contact like that, and it makes her feel safe, and tethered to the world somehow. They have to fight their way through other people, sweaty and dancing, moving like waves against them in time with the music. It’s all just a huge fucking mess, even messier than it was. There’s regret creeping in about what she just said, and she really wants to call Brittany back, and fix it, but it’s no good. She couldn’t go anywhere even if she wanted to. Lindsay’s grip is too strong and her voice sounded so stern, like her mom’s when she gets all hard ass and can’t be argued with.

“Oh fuck yes! I love this song!” Lindsay declares, grinning as she spins her around when they reach the bottom of the stairs. “Let’s show ‘em how it’s done!”

A wall of heat hits her, and the lights shift, snapping her out of whatever haze she’s been in for the last hour or so. She looks around and suddenly; Leigh is there on her opposite side, all achingly pretty smile, and even prettier skin that’s practically glowing. She forgets to breathe for a second. In that tiny blue dress there’s more skin on show than is covered; and there are thoughts in her head that she _really_ shouldn’t be having about her roommate.

“Hey you,” Leigh purrs sweetly, taking her other hand. “Where have you two been?”

“Drunk dialling our ex …” Lindsay answers, throwing her a pointed look.

“Around, L. Around,” she replies, overlapping. Her voice is tinged with something like sadness.

“Oh …” Leigh half smiles, sadly, and squeezes her hand tighter. “I missed my little dancing partner!”

She’s drunk. They’re both really, _really_ drunk. She really misses her normal dance partner too. Oh, she’d dance with her now, and wouldn’t give a single fuck who was watching. One more dance. One more kiss, that’s all she wants right now. It’d be just enough to take the edge off. They could figure it out. They could make it work. They really could be together again.

“Let it go, Lopez. Let go,” Lindsay breathes, hot in the shell of her ear.

So she does, she lets herself fall against a little against Lindsay, lets Leigh come closer, arms resting loosely around her neck, and they start to move in the same rhythm, and it feels kind of OK, even if her whole face seems like it’s on fire and there’s sweat running down her back. When Leigh moves closer still, and Lindsay further away, coaxing her to move or, maybe it’s to stay perfectly still, she’s not sure because there’s this weird energy happening – like with Zoey, but different and bigger and she feels it rushing all through her body at once. It’s like she’s suddenly breathing deeper or differently with a new set of lungs – the thoughts she tries so hard to make disappear are back.

Thoughts that drift into other kinds of dreams; dreams she’s used to having about Brittany. Except, they’re not always Brittany now, so she’s left horny as hell, guilt-ridden, and freaked out at the same time. Sometimes, it’s Leigh who’s kissing her, after slipping into her bed in the middle of the night, and it’s soft and sweet and gentle, because she’s shy and nervous, and she teaches Leigh everything Brittany showed her. Other times, it’s Avery, and they’re in Professor Ambrose’s office. One minute, she’s talking about her paper, Avery’s all eloquent and flirtatious, and all she can see is those long, long legs peeking out from the side of the desk. The next, they’re on that desk, going at it like she and Brittany used to in Coach Sylvester’s office, until that perfect hair of Avery’s is mussed up beyond all recognition, and she has her hands on those legs and her head in between them. Lately, those dreams have gotten more vivid, and she sees all of them: Brittany, Leigh, and Avery, merging into each other until she can’t tell who is doing what. But, it’s Brittany that stays. It’s Brittany that haunts her, because they’re not really dreams at all, they’re things she’s remembering, dredged up from her subconscious. Where Brittany worships her and kisses every inch of her and it’s making love instead of just fucking. She misses it so bad that the desperation she feels when she wakes up is the sad kind, and she has to bury her face into her pillow to muffle the sound of her crying.

She’s closer to Leigh now, and they’re both closer to the DJ booth than before. They turn, and turn, dip and slide, hold hands, fingers interlaced. Lindsay’s gone, along with her focus. The music is so loud she can feel it in her bones. Lindsay’s words are still drifting around her head, looping, making her calm. Eyes closed, she just moves with Leigh, not minding when she presses closer to her, and there’s a hand on the small of her back, guiding her a little. When she opens her eyes, the world is running in slow-motion. Leigh’s watching her, searching her, she lets out a shaky breath, because she’s seen that look before; the sweet smile, tousled blonde hair, and that soft concerned look in her blue, blue eyes (even if they’re not _quite_ the same shade of blue). The look that says “let me make this better, Santana.”

In this trick light, Leigh could be exactly who she wants her to be.

It just hurts, but hurt isn't big enough a word. She just needs something to make it hurt fractionally less, so she can breathe again. She reaches, brushing Leigh’s cheek with the bank of her hand, surprised by the contact because she half expects her to disappear. She swallows hard, licking her lips because they’re suddenly dry. Leigh is talking, but she can’t hear a word.

“Santana, are you OK?”

Then, the distance between them is gone completely, and she's kissing her. The height's all off, and the angle's all off, but it's fine, it's perfect, and it’s everything she’s been longing for. Her heart beats fast in her chest, and she knows she’s shaking, because it’s new and different and _not_ Brittany, but then, there’s something that feels so comfortable and familiar, and _so_ Brittany too. It’s soft and tentative at first, and then Leigh surges forward suddenly, grabbing the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair. Then, it deepens, and she can’t seem to push away, matching her. It’s just good, stoking that warm delicious feeling in her belly that she’s missed for so long. There’s this urgency, this desperation – she can taste it, and she wonders if that’s what Brittany’s tasted on her lips, in her mouth, on her tongue all this time. She sobers. Guilt flooding back into her brain in the same instant. Now, it’s not fine, and not perfect because Leigh doesn't kiss the same, she doesn't taste the same and it isn't right at all. No. This is a mistake. A huge mistake. She pulls away, breathless, and the world kicks back into the right gear.

She tries to push Leigh away; terrified she’s ruined everything. Terrified she’ll tell Brittany or Jason, or Brittany _and_ Jason. Just terrified. Suddenly, she’s the girl she never wanted to be. All that fear comes tumbling straight out of her mouth in a confused, rambling mess.

“Oh fuck … Oh fuck … FUCK! I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have … I didn’t … it wasn’t … I.”

She turns away, hands on her head, eyes screwed closed, reeling and utterly confused.

“Santana, stop,” Leigh calls.

She doesn’t. She can’t. She needs to get the hell out of here, and get some air. There are too many bodies and too little space, and the fire exits seem further away than she thought they were. She pushes, trying to make space for herself, ignoring the staring and the looks, but she doesn’t get very far at all. Then, she feels a hand, grabbing for her blindly and she slaps it away. The music picks up, and the crowd moves, dragging her back and she almost loses her balance. They’d easily swallow her whole, but at the last moment, someone reaches out and grabs hold of her.

It’s Leigh.

“It’s OK. It’s OK,” Leigh assures, wrapping her in a hug.

“No, no it’s not,” she shakes her head, gulping for air and on the verge tears, struggling against Leigh’s grip, but she’s deceptively strong.

“Look at me.”

She refuses to lift her head until Leigh makes her, cradling it in her hands, forcing her to look and make eye contact. Her heart is racing, and chest is tight, heavy with something she can’t name, and she can’t breathe properly.

“Breathe, Santana. Breathe,” Leigh says, careful and even, looking her right in the eyes. “It was just a moment.”

A moment.

Leigh’s not yelling or panicking or running or anything. She should be. Why isn’t she? In fact, she looks just the same as before. How can that possibly be? It’s like Leigh knew this was going to happen all along, and she was just waiting patiently for it all to unfold.

“It’s OK honey, I know I’m not the one you want.”

It feels like her heart is going to explode and she’ll collapse and die in this hellhole of a place, miles from home. She doesn’t want to be held and soothed. She doesn’t want Leigh to be gentle and kind. Kindness is her undoing.

“I don’t … I …. I can’t do this anymore …”

Her next breath turns into a pained sob. She tries to force it down and push it away like every other time, but she can’t. The tears betray her, rolling silently down her cheeks; hot, bitter and unrelenting.

Something in her breaks, and she just gives in, because the energy to fight has left her.

“I know. I know,” Leigh replies, cautious but knowing, rocking her a little.

She clings on to Leigh tight, burying her face in Leigh’s neck, and just sobs. Great wracking sobs she feels reverberate through her entire body. All the pain she’s been burying comes out with them, and she can barely stand.

“It’s OK Santana. You’ll be OK,” Leigh says, over and over, in the same gentle voice, shielding her from view, shushing her and stroking her hair.

Oh, how she wants to believe her, but right now, in this club, full of people dancing to a song she can’t even hear anymore, OK is a light far away. It’s a pinprick in the pitch black of her life. Somewhere unreachable that she can never get back to.


	12. Sanctuary [Brittany]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“She knew Santana had changed in the months since she left, but now, it’s obvious in a way she hadn’t really grasped before.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For story notes see [Chapter One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/738503/chapters/1374571). The last chapter. Wow. This has been an amazing little journey. Thank you to everyone who has read, loved, commented, given kudos to or otherwise supported this story. I really appreciate it. This really is a labour of love, for the pairing, for the inspiration Alex Clare gave me with the record it’s built upon, and most importantly, for the characters. It’s made me think about and understand them in ways I never considered. I hope this is what you’ve been waiting for and does justice to what the girls have the potential to be. Thank you, as ever, to [cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com) for her beta skills, cheerleading, and the Spanish that appears in the chapter. She really did push me to keep going at this when I was starting to lose faith in myself.

***

_I feel confused_  
 _There's so much to lose_  
 _My head is fighting with my heart_  
 _It feels so torn apart_  
 _Holding you close to my heart_  
 _I will find sanctuary in your arms_

***

Thanksgiving’s been on her mind for weeks now. More important to her than the grades she’s been getting in her papers, the beaming smile Miss Pillsbury gives her whenever she shows them to her during their tutoring sessions, or Sectionals even. If she could’ve sped up time so she got through all those things in a blink of an eye, then she would’ve. Thanksgiving was when Santana would be home next, and they’d have time together and talk about everything. Really talk, and she’d finally be able to find out the truth behind that drunk dial, the teary and heartfelt call that followed it in the morning, and the ‘meltdown’ that happened in between. She can remember every word Santana said in that barely there, croaky voice. Santana promised she’d explain. Santana promised that everything would be fine, and they’d celebrate after Sectionals, because, obviously they’d win.

After Christmas, Thanksgiving is her favourite holiday, the food is always awesome, and it’s full of little traditions she and Santana have made together. It always starts around dinner, when the house is full and she has to be on her best behaviour. Santana will text her, bored, bitching about her stepmother and her dad, but still being totally adorable. She has to hide her phone from her grandma, and try not to laugh. Then, Santana comes over, in her prettiest dress – the kind that her abuela makes her wear to church that makes her look younger than she is – with pumpkin pie to share, and they play footsie and sneak the leftover drink from everyone’s glasses, so they’re not quite drunk, while everyone else watches the football in the lounge. Things always end with them climbing up to the top of Chrissy’s tree house in the yard for sweet lady kisses and much more.

Well, Thanksgiving has come and gone. They didn’t talk, New Directions didn’t win, and they’re definitely _not_ fine, because none of their traditions were honoured. No texts. No pumpkin pie, and no sweet lady kisses either.

_“Oh Britt-Britt. I’m so sorry about last night … I’m a mess without you, baby … but you already know that, don’t you?”_

They haven’t been fine since she watched Santana get her diploma on stage, and she wasn’t standing right there next to her. Everything changed after that, even though they both fought hard for it not to. She doesn’t like to think of it that way, but it’s true. Graduation is the moment they became two people again instead of one. She knows she stopped being Santana’s girlfriend long before Santana said they should break up. Except, she also knows that she’s never _really_ stopped being Santana’s girlfriend, even when she’s not supposed to be. Like now.

She doesn’t know what they are. When it comes to Santana, it’s something she’s used to. They’ve always been in that strange sort of place, where the lines blur. If their strange place was a room, it’d be painted grey, like her Grandpa Pierce’s woodshed. This confusion is familiar, like taking the same route to the 7-11 when she has to get extra groceries for her mom (milk, it’s almost always milk, because she feeds Lord Tubbington far too much) and she avoids stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk because she’s superstitious, but it’s not comfortable. It makes her nauseous and uneasy. The last time she felt like this, Santana told her that she “just wanted her,” but now she’s afraid that their break up isn’t unofficial anymore, and Santana wants someone else.

Girls like Santana don’t stay single for very long.

She’s had her fair share of people looking her way lately too. Boys mostly – but there is a pretty new freshman Cheerio who looks at her kind of like Santana used to – jocks from the football team or the hockey team; that new boy in Glee Club, Ryder, with the Justin Bieber hair, and a perfect toothpaste commercial smile. They stare at her across the classroom, they hold open doors, they smile at her sweetly, but she never smiles back. She doesn’t want to be unkind, but she doesn’t want to encourage them either. Her heart belongs to someone else. It wouldn’t be fair. Her mom says it isn’t fair to lead people on and play with their feelings, so she tries not to. Her mom didn’t say what you’re supposed to do when people do it to you, and all you can do is follow, and hope you’re doing the right thing.

_“I know you probably won’t believe me, because I was drunk, but I meant those words Britt. I love you. So much. I don’t know much else right now, but I do know that … I miss being yours too.”_

She’s following Santana now, but there’s barely any talking. They’re right next to each other, hands stuffed into the pockets of their coats, braced against the cold, but she’s never felt more alone. She can hear Santana’s teeth chattering, and ordinarily she’d pull her close, kiss her on the tip of her nose and rub at her forearms to warm her up – Santana always feels the cold more – but it doesn’t feel right to. She wants to hold Santana’s hand, but that doesn’t feel right either. If she held out her own hand for Santana to link pinkies with, she’s almost certain she’d be left hanging, and she hasn’t felt that way since they were fourteen. Everything was so much easier then; hanging out at the mall, running up Dr Lopez’s credit card, or sitting in the back row at the movies eating too much popcorn while they watched the matinee – something with Audrey Hepburn or Marilyn Monroe – and waited out the rain. It all feels so long ago, but the memory of it all is too vivid for that to be true.

They’re walking back from the Lu Lu’s Diner. Santana suggested they meet, and she walked there for nostalgia sake, even though she has a newly acquired driver’s licence in her pocket (she meant to show Santana the last time she was here for Grease with Lindsay and Leigh, but she forgot). After everything that’s happened, with Sectionals and poor Marley and all the drama that came after, it felt like a good idea. She hasn’t been there for a long time, and she’s home alone this weekend. Everyone else is in Michigan. Her dad is at a sales conference, and her mom is with Chrissy at a majorette competition. It’s the first time she hasn’t been able to watch since Chrissy moved to junior level. Sitting in that warm, bustling diner with Santana, eating their favourite food, sipping on milkshakes that are really too cold for the time of year, is better than pizza and MTV with Lord Tubbington for company. She thought just being with Santana again at Lu Lu’s would make it better. It worked in the past. It could work again. Lu Lu’s been her comfort place. Ever since she was little, her dad would take her for breakfast on Saturdays, and it was always special. It became even more special when she took Santana for breakfast on another Saturday, after early morning Cheerios practice when they just made the team. After that, it became their place to go whenever Santana was sad about her parents fighting, upset over her abuela, or just pissed at Puck, Finn, Quinn and everyone else at school.

_B, are you busy? I could go for a burger at Lu Lu’s right now. Maybe we could talk things over? S xx_

_Sure. I was hoping we could do something before you have to go back to Louisville. Our usual place? B_

Talk things over. It sounded so adult. Not so long ago, Santana would’ve texted something like: _Bored. Wanna hang at Lu Lu’s? You, me, and some French toast? You can have first bite :D S xxxx._ Things change. She’s heard that a lot lately, especially from her mom and Miss Pillsbury, but she always thought people stayed the same underneath no matter how they behaved on the outside. She’s not so sure anymore. It took her longer to send a reply to Santana than normal; typing and re-typing, like she never usually does, unsure whether to add kisses or not, because she didn’t know if she was allowed. This time, Lu Lu’s didn’t really work. Instead of fixing what was wrong, it patched over them. The band-aid is cheap, doesn’t stick well, and is already peeling off.

They didn’t sit at their usual table by the window, so they could see everyone coming and going, they sat smack in the middle of everything, so she could barely hear herself think. They picked at their food, and Santana left most of her curly fries, even though they’re her favourite thing in the whole world. They talked about everything but each other – Sectionals, Marley, school, Louisville, their parents and Lord Tubbington. When they weren’t talking, there were awkward silences instead – that _never_ happens – and Santana was distant and preoccupied, stirring her latte and not really making eye contact; like she didn’t really want to be there at all. Santana’s holding something back. Something that’s bigger than the both of them. She can feel it. She was hopeful, because everyone else seemed to be, especially Marley; giddy and excited enough for them both when they talked on the phone while she chose what to wear. That hope grew three sizes in her chest along with her heart when she and Santana met on the corner opposite the diner; and there was Santana, all soft eyes and pretty, pretty smile. They hugged, and to her relief, it lingered, and Santana even pressed a tiny kiss to her cheek.

It was like meeting her for the first time all over again, even if they’ve kept in touch through phone calls and texts only. They don’t do Skype anymore. It was too difficult, too painful, and too much, Santana said, and she agreed with her. She agreed with lots of things during that long, long phone call, even if she couldn’t fully believe them. She guesses that’s what being mature is. It’s doing things that hurt, even if they’re right for you. It’s not just one way, though; she knows that Santana’s heart broke too, and the broken pieces are still rattling around in her chest. That’s what Blaine, Tina and Sugar don’t get. She knows they’re only looking out for her, and maybe she’s crazy for wanting to be around Santana at all, let alone give things another try, but she can’t help it. It’s Santana, and she’s never loved anyone like she loves her. She even loves her when that love feels a lot like hurt instead; knowing there will be more hurt to come. It’s hard, and she’s still confused, because her feelings for Santana are pulling her one way, and everyone else’s advice and kind words are pulling her in the other; like tug-o-war, but she’s the rope instead of being on a team.

_“We could start again, right Britt? We could do it. We don’t have to be like everyone else. We can be the ones that make it.”_

Santana apologised a lot during that call, but she knows every one was meant. From the drunk dial, to the sorries for breaking up and breaking her heart. She still doesn’t really know why any of it happened in terms of details. She can only guess. Every time she’s asked, Santana’s answer has been the same: “it’s complicated.” That’s Santana code for ‘it hurts, and it hurts even more to explain why.’ It’ll come, eventually, like everything that hurts Santana bad. There will be a point when there’s no room left in her head to carry it all, and the confession will come. Once, Santana wanted her back, so badly, and she wanted her too. She still _does_ want her, more than anything, but she wonders now if the wanting is enough. If love is enough.

Leigh pops into her mind suddenly, but not so suddenly at all, if she’s honest. Ever since they met properly, that pretty little Southern sweetheart has been there. She really likes her, and is thankful of the fact that she took care of Santana when she couldn’t, but there’s a tiny part of her that gets stuck on the fact that maybe that girl is the kind of girl Santana might want now … that is, until she remembers Santana on the line, tearful as she admitted they kissed.

_“I don’t know Britt. I really don’t. She was just there and, for like, a second, if I imagined hard enough, she was you … and then she wasn’t you and it wasn’t right and … I hate myself for it. Do you hate me? Are you mad? I still feel so close to you that it’s like cheating Britt. I promised you that I never would … I broke it … I broke us."_

She wasn’t mad, and she definitely doesn’t hate her – she never could, no matter what Santana does. She was surprised; briefly, a little jealous too; maybe, but not anything like the jealous Santana gets. They’ve always been open about attraction or when things have happened with people at parties. It doesn’t make sense, to other people, whenever they’ve sat in the food court at the mall and she’d ask Santana if she thought this or that girl was pretty. It wasn’t a trick; it was about guiding her to be comfortable. Santana carries all this guilt – “there’s still a good little Catholic girl in there, somewhere, Britt-Britt.” She just wanted Santana to feel OK about liking girls and having feelings. Comfortable. Positive. Happy. Love is a good thing, to love is a good thing, except it hasn’t always been that way for Santana, and she still has to remind her to break the habit sometimes, and not let herself be weighed down. She knows Leigh is just something Santana needed, an impulse; like that TA she has a thing for. Santana’s naturally impulsive. Their first kiss was an impulse, and Santana refused to talk about it for a week. The conversation that finally came – where every word was dragged out of her – ended with their second, third, and fourth kisses. It’s what Santana does, in her dark moments, and they’ve had their share of those. What she _is_ angry about though, is that Santana felt so completely alone, and didn’t think of talking with her about it before she decided it was better to get so drunk she threw up, and managed to throw her scholarship down the toilet at the same time.

She knew Santana had changed in the months since she left, but now, it’s obvious in a way she hadn’t really grasped before. She can see it as well as feel it. The girl next to her looks something like her Santana, except different, with her beret and her stripy scarf. She looks like the college girls from TV, with her longer loosely curled hair, lighter make-up. Santana looks grown-up, a woman instead of a girl. The night, and the streetlights make her look even more beautiful. So beautiful in fact, that the sharp intake of breathe she feels stick in her chest has nothing at all to do with the cold.

That same feeling happened yesterday, when she watched Santana – OK, spied on her – in Marley’s hospital room. She dropped by to visit like she promised Marley she would, and Santana was already there, talking with Mrs Rose. She hid out of sight and listened, already half knowing what Santana would say. Santana spoke in the soft, caring voice that usually only she gets to hear, apologising for not helping Marley more, or telling someone what was going on with Kitty. They’re all guilty of that, but Santana seems to feel that burden more heavily. She knows why, of course, Santana came so close to being Marley once. They’ve all skipped meals at one time or another. They’ve all spent most of their high school life tired, hungry, pissed off or all three because of Coach Sylvester’s cleanses, but Santana would take it further sometimes. She caught her one time, throwing up in the bathroom after lunch, and she held her while she cried, making her promise never to do it again, while she listened to Santana say how she wanted people to notice her and think she was beautiful like the girls in magazines. She noticed Santana. She thought Santana was beautiful and she told her that, a thousand times over. Santana will believe her one day.

Santana kept her promise, she’s good at keeping them, mostly, but when she’s sad about things, she takes them out on herself, a kind of punishment. That’s what the club and the drunk dial was about, in a way. Santana wanted to make herself hurt more for all the hurt they were causing each other. Maybe she thought getting wasted would make things hurt less – “Everything gets better after a few drinks, B. Everyone is nicer to you. Everyone is prettier too.” – but it just ended up hurting more. Marley punishes herself too. She didn’t need to hear the words Santana was saying; all she needed was to see how kind, how gentle and how careful she was with Marley. Santana cares, Santana really cares, and she was afraid to show that side of herself to anyone else for so long. The fact that she took Marley’s hand and held it while they talked shows just how far she’s really come.

Maybe she’s helped Santana in that. Loving people, she thinks, makes them more able to love, but it has to be there to begin with.

Until she watched them both in that hospital room, with Marley looking tiny in her hospital grown, hooked up to a drip, lying in that big, big, bed, she didn’t know if she should dare to want more from Santana again. The part of her that said too much had changed was winning. Tina says that people grow apart, and it doesn’t mean we don’t love them anymore (she just wishes that Tina and Mike would get back together, that everyone who broke up would, so they’d be family again), and that the love is just different. For a while, she believed her. Except, the love isn’t different, the love is exactly the same. It’s still as deep; it still burns away, fierce and hard in her chest. She wishes she could show Santana that light right now; that she could see how bright it is, and how it’s never gone out, even when it flickered and threatened to. It’ll always be there, she knows, whether Santana is in Lima, Louisville, or Laos.

_“Please say we can try, Britt. Please?”_

That’s the only thing keeping her going these past months, stopping her from giving in completely to her misery and giving up on everything. It was Sugar that got her to see it wouldn’t do either of them any good. Sure, Blaine’s little ‘dust yourself off’ pep talks were what she needed to hear, and borrowing his idea of throwing herself into school activities was probably the best decision she’s made in a while, but it wasn’t until Sugar said how proud Santana would be that she’s been doing all this extra stuff, that it really all clicked into place. Yearbook is fun, people like the pictures and it’s reminded her how much she loves taking them too. Her art teacher, Mr Becker, says she has a good eye. Being back on _The Muckraker_ is fun too, even if JBI is still a total pain. There’s not as much drama this time, and she really likes writing the column he gave her. Focussing on that made the Santana-shaped space in her life seem that bit smaller. It makes her parents happy too, and her dad said it’d look good on college applications along with Glee and Cheerios, and gave her the motivation to keep on studying hard – harder than she ever has, thanks to Miss Pillsbury. The SAT’s are behind her, and she’s feeling much better about it all this time around. Being left behind once is difficult to get over, but if it happened again, she doesn’t know that she could cope. She wants Santana to be in the crowd, cheering her at graduation. Mostly, she wants to make Santana proud of her. She wants the shock Santana feels at the news she has to be good kind this time.

The steady rhythm of Santana’s boots on the sidewalk, crunching a little in the leftover frost, suddenly stops, and she realises they’ve reached her house. She just looks up at the door and then back at Santana, heavy with sadness, and begins to walk up the steps. This isn’t what she imagined. She hoped they would’ve made some progress by now, instead of walking in silence while they both stayed stuck in their heads, trying to figure out where they went wrong. They missed a turning, somewhere; a sign too small too see, someplace. When she reaches the third step, still knowing Santana’s eyes are on her as she searches her pockets for her keys, Santana takes a huge breath, and she turns back to look at her.

“I dropped out of Louisville.”

It takes a few long seconds for what Santana’s just said to finally fit together in her head. She’s imagined this moment, because she wished for it sometimes. In the dream, Santana came bounding up the steps right after, grabbed her and kissed her until she couldn’t breathe. In reality, Santana stays still. Fists clenched at her side, anxious, pale in the warm glow cast by the porch lights. She’s seen her look that way before, a long time ago, in a crowded hallway, when Santana told her something just as secret.

“That’s what you wanted to say all this time, isn’t it?” she answers, finally, coming slowly back down the steps, so she and Santana are almost level. “It’s why you’ve been so weird. You still don’t trust me do you?”

“It’s not like that, Britt,” Santana sighs, long and heavy. “I just … I didn’t know where to start.”

“At the beginning,” she shrugs. Anger flashes through her. She’s tired of Santana keeping things from her and making decisions by herself without talking about it.

“I failed you and Coach Sylvester. I always let you down. I always disappoint you, Britt.”

She sighs too. There’s only one person who failed, and it isn’t Santana. She’s the one who screwed up all their plans. Maybe Santana would still be at Louisville if she were with her too. Maybe they wouldn’t be there at all, but she’s pretty sure it wouldn’t have come to something like this.

“Oh San, don’t say that. You haven’t. You disappoint me _sometimes_ , but that’s because you’re not truthful,” she’s trying not to lose her temper and yell, even though she’s dying to scream at her, because they’re in the street and Santana looks really scared. “I know it’s still hard for you, but why couldn’t we just talk about it?”

“God Britt, I don’t know …” Santana tails off, edging closer to her, but still fearful. “You both worked so hard to get me in there and … And I didn’t want to throw it back at you. It was meant to be our dream, Britt. Us. Together in college. But it wasn’t a dream at all. It was a nightmare most of the time, because I wasn’t with you. It just didn’t feel right. I made it sound better because I didn’t want to admit it wasn’t. I don’t know how to be without you.” Santana pauses for breath, and something that sounds dangerously like a sob escapes from her, and she looks angry at herself. “It terrifies me.”

She reaches, taking both of Santana’s hands in her own – they’re ice cold – and leads her to sit on the porch steps. She doesn’t speak; she doesn’t need to, because Santana’s just said a lot of the things that have been rattling around her mind for months now. All through high school, their big decisions were made while sitting on the steps of this house, come rain or shine; eyes cast towards the street, watching cars and kids pass. They’ve planned parties, spun out time before revealing report cards, nervously read college admission replies, snuck kisses until her mom flicked the porch lights on and off to make her come inside. It only feels right that they make this one, whatever it is, in the same place.

Her voice is tiny when she speaks next. “Me too. I’m sorry I ruined everything.”

“Britt-Britt,” Santana breathes, clutching to her. “You didn’t. Don’t ever say that. Stuff just happens. Life gets in the way.”

Santana sounds different when she talks now, and she can’t figure out why; old and wise, like it’s been a thousand years since they last saw each other, but looking younger than her nineteen years. This light, or lack of it, makes her look younger still.

Out of habit or comfort – she’s not sure – she puts her arm around Santana. At first, she thinks Santana will pull away, but she doesn’t. Instead, Santana settles into the same position she always falls into whenever they sit together, head nestled on her shoulder, and Santana lets out a long, shaky breath of relief. She feels her entire body relax at the sound. Something’s shifted. Some invisible weight they’ve both been carrying is … gone.

“When did you leave Louisville?” she ventures, cautious. She hates to think of Santana struggling all alone, even though she’s stubborn and street smart.

Santana lifts her head. “Couple of weeks. Lucky I still had one of your care packages, else I would’ve starved.”

Santana laughs then, mostly to herself.

“That’s not funny,” she scolds, on the verge of tears. She hugs Santana tighter, hoping it’s enough to protect her now, even if it is only from the cold.

“No, it’s not,” Santana smiles weakly, and she’s surprised to watch a tear steak down her face along with it.

Those care packages were a distraction, to begin with, to stop her feeling so miserable. It’s what her mom does, she likes to involve people and keep them busy when they’re going through a hard time. She liked having the time to walk around the store with her mom and picking out all of Santana’s favourite things (half of which would be put back because it was candy or chocolate since Santana has a sweet tooth), crossing off the list they made as she went. It was nicer still to watch what her mom would pick out especially, to make sure Santana got something good to eat at least once a week. The last one arrived at Santana’s dorm the day after they broke up. She knows because Santana still texted to say thank you, still calling her mom Belinda instead of Mrs Pierce, even though you know she probably corrected herself a million times.

_So sweet of you to send that package. Thank you. Not sure I deserve it right now. Tell Belinda I said thanks too. I hope you’re OK. I’m so worried about you. Text back. Please? Sorry isn’t enough, but I am, Brittany. I am xxx_

(She cried over that for a solid hour, while her mom cradled her as if she were a tiny baby again).

“I ended up sleeping on Elaine’s couch. She’s been pretty cool, but I could only stay for so long, you know?”

Santana’s playing it down, like she does when she falls out with her parents or when there would be fights at school, but her eyes tell a different story. One that says she’s been sad and lonely, even more sad and lonely than before.

She remembers Elaine from her visit – an older girl, the Cards captain, who looked like something straight from the cover of _National Cheerleader_ one minute, and the sexy love interest in a rap video the next. She couldn’t really figure her out. It’s hard to imagine that the girl tweeting drunken pictures and flirting with everything could be a real friend.

It hurts, that Santana didn’t turn to her, but she tries to not show it.

“I would’ve helped you. My parents, or yours.”

“Yeah, I know,” Santana admits, glancing away, watching the guy across the street load up his car. “But like I said, it’d just be another of my great disappointments. My Dad is gonna tear me a new one when they find out. My mom will be pissed too. All she’s ever wanted is for me to go to college and I couldn’t even stick it for a semester. It’s nice to keep proving my dad right though. Once a fuck up …”

“Santana … Don’t. He loves you. He wants the best for you.”

“B, I know you see the best in everyone,” Santana smiles, softly, patting her thigh. “But not everyone is lucky enough to have a dad like yours. I’m not the daughter he wanted. I get it, it’s cool. He wants a med student with a cookie-cutter boyfriend, not someone in love with her best friend who can’t even hold down a lousy waitressing job. Though, for once, that wasn’t _actually_ my fault. Who knew that complaining about getting felt up by horndog frat boys and sleazy businessmen got you fired?”

She looks away, feeling herself well up. All this time, she thought Santana was OK, just trying to get on with things and get through it, like she has, but instead, Santana’s had been going through all of that extra stuff on top, with no one to turn to. When they broke up, Santana said she hadn’t been a good girlfriend or a good friend to her. It turns out that she hasn’t either.

“Hey,” Santana reaches, tapping her jaw to make her look back. “Don’t cry. I’m OK. I’m a tough cookie!”

“But,” she sniffs back tears, “cookies still crumble.”

“Yeah,” Santana nods sadly, “I guess they do. Lucky you’re so good at baking, huh?”

They look at each other for what feels like a really long time. Santana’s hand is still nestled against her cheek. She wants to kiss her, so badly, but she knows if they start kissing, they won’t stop, and then they’ll end up sleeping together, and none of their problems will be solved. That’s how they’ve avoided things in the past, and they can’t do that if they want a future together now. She wants for them to be together so badly, but not like this.

“You’re going to New York, aren’t you?” she blurts out, before she realises, and Santana’s hand moves away.

Suddenly, things feel heavy again.

“I don’t know. I have a ticket, but New York is even further away from Lima. I should just stay here until the summer and …” Santana pauses, glancing over. “They’re looking for people at Breadstix,” she presses on, nodding as she speaks, as if she’s trying to convince herself. “I was actually a pretty good waitress. Solid tips too. It wouldn’t be so bad.”

She has the strangest urge to laugh, because working there is the last thing Santana needs. Sure, Santana would look hot in the uniform, she’d get staff discount, they’d be together and Santana would have her own money in her pocket, but she’d be also be miserable and they’d end up hating each other. For as long as she can remember, Santana’s wanted out of Lima, and she’s never seen her more at home than when they were in New York. Now it’s within her reach, she’s fighting against it.

“I know what you’re doing, Santana, and it’s not going to work. Louisville didn’t work because you did it for me. Staying here won’t work either.”

“Britt, I told you already,” Santana sounds tired. So very tired, “I went because I wanted –”

“Let me finish,” she cuts in, warningly. She takes a breath to steady herself, not breaking eye contact. “It’s OK to want something other than me.”

Santana opens her mouth, like she’s going to reply, but then stops herself, unsure. It looks like she’s wanted to hear someone say those words for a really long time.

“I don’t want you look back years from now, when we’re still stuck here and hate me for it, but it’s OK to be scared too. You’re braver than you think you are.”

Santana looks her up and down, puzzled, like she doesn’t know who she’s looking at.

The future’s been all she can think of. What they’ll do, where they’ll go, who they’ll be. She’s imagined hundreds of futures, thousands. She’s determined at least one of them will come true.

“Truth? I don’t know who I am or what I’m doing and I need to figure it out. Yeah, I’m scared, because it’s fucking New York! Rachel says I can stay with her and Kurt for a while until I get settled. Maybe I could pick up some classes or something,” Santana shrugs. “Still, I’ll probably end up broke in like, two seconds. Millions of people go there all the time thinking they’ll make it and they just fail.”

She cuts in, overlapping her. “And millions of people _don’t_ fail, but you’ll never know if you don’t try. Go. Go to New York.”

Santana sucks in a breath, surprised. “I can’t.”

“More than anything, I want you to be happy. Songbirds don’t fly when their wings are clipped.”

“I _am_ happy. You make me happy, Britt. Beyond happy.” Santana replies, voice breaking.

She takes Santana’s hand, lacing their fingers together; she wants to kiss Santana’s knuckles, because it always calms her whenever she’s angry or upset, but it’s too much right now.

“You’re bigger than Lima, Santana. You’re talented, and smart, and beautiful. You need New York. New York needs you. Leave me behind. No looking back,” her voice gives out, and her vision clouds with tears.

Now she understands what Santana meant about doing the mature thing. Santana looks the same as she felt that day in the choir room.

“There’s someone else, is that it? You’re dating someone?” Santana asks, turning to her fully, panicked, and then she catches herself. “How could there not be? Look at you! I was crazy to think you’d just wait for me forever.”

Santana couldn’t be more wrong if she tried.

“No. There’s no one but you,” she pauses, tapping over her heart. “You're here, see. Always. Forever. You’re it,” she takes a steadying breath, wondering if she should risk saying what’s on the tip of her tongue. “Soulmates, so to speak.”

Santana’s eyes are brimming with tears.

“I was wrong to break up with you. So wrong. It’s the biggest mistake I ever made. I need you in my life,” Santana begins, quiet and careful. Then, everything she’s been carrying these past months seems to rush out of her in one go, one word tripping over the next as she rushes to get them out. “I know you still have to finish school and I don't even know if you want New York or if you even want me, but I never want you to think I just gave up on us. I did it because I love you. I love you with all my heart.”

She lets out a long breath as Santana’s words settle between them.

“I know, and that’s why you have to go,” she reaches around and undoes the clasp on the heart necklace she’s still wearing. “I know you can do it, Santana, you can outshine them all.”

“Britt, what are you doing?” Santana looks horrified, holding on to her own necklace, tightly. “I don’t get it. I thought …”

“Remember the quote that’s in the card I wrote when you left for Louisville?”

Santana’s brows furrow, confused, and then it clicks. “I carry your heart with me …”

_(i carry it in my heart)_

“Now it’s true,” she says, carefully taking Santana’s necklace off, and replacing it with her own, so they’re wearing opposite halves.

She’s trying to be brave; she’s trying not to show how much this hurts her. She remembers something her dad told her once, after all the stuff with the tape happened and everyone was suddenly talking about Santana. He told her that love is an easy word to say, that people say it all the time without really meaning it. Love is something more than just a word. Love is what you are. Love is what you do in your every action. This. Right now, this moment, is the most loving thing she’s ever done. She’s letting Santana go; with an open heart and open hands, instead of struggling against it and trying to keep hold like she did before.

“Oh,” Santana replies, awed, tracing the new but familiar outline of the pendent around her neck.

“And, this way, I have a reason to come and visit. One day, we can put the heart back together, because we’ll be back together. We can build a new dream, a better dream, and a bigger one. We have to be separate for a little while, but it’ll be worth it. We’ll find our way back to each other. We _can_ make it, just like you said. We already found what everyone else is looking for. It’s not goodbye.”

Santana overlaps, her smile tinged with sadness. “It’s ‘see you later,’ right?”

“Right,” she laughs a little, blinking back tears.

_I will always love you the most._

“You’re still the smartest girl I know, Brittany Susan Pierce,” Santana lowers her voice to a whisper as she leans closer, “You’re gonna get to fly soon too, baby. Real high. The world better be ready.”

‘Baby.’ Now the relief is hers. She didn’t know how much she’s missed Santana calling her that until now.

Santana wraps her in a hug, squeezing her tight. She closes her eyes, sinking her fingertips into Santana’s hair, winding them around the soft curls while she breathes in Santana’s perfume, nuzzling into her neck. She hopes it lingers long after Santana’s gone.

She wants so desperately to tell Santana about her photography, and her application to Tisch, trying for early decision after Mr Becker and Miss Pillsbury encouraged her, but she’s scared of jinxing things. She doesn’t want to dare to hope. The portfolio she submitted is about Parallel Universe Theory. It’s the only science she’s ever understood inside and out. It’s complicated, and some people don’t get it at all, but she does, because it speaks her heart as well as her mind, in one big, long conversation. When she went to Mr Lasky, to see if she had it right, his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. Now she’s kind of his favourite. Every picture she sent is of Santana, because Santana’s home to her; everything safe, and familiar, and beautiful and exciting. Santana’s part of her and who she is; like the colour of her eyes, that she can tie a knot in a cherry stalk with her tongue, and do aerials without breaking a sweat. Santana makes her believe that magic really does exist. Anything is _still_ possible.

“Stay,” she whispers, mostly into Santana’s neck, nuzzling into the small patch of skin above Santana’s scarf. Before she realises, her lips are brushing over the same spot.

She hears Santana gasp. “What?”

The hand that’s been rubbing gentle circles on her back to comfort her stills.

“Stay. Stay with me, tonight,” she adds, before she changes her mind.

She just needs Santana, for now, for this night. Just once more. Even if it’s the last time they’re ever together. They could have this night. It could be perfect.

“Britt-Britt,” Santana’s voice is high and small, choking on the word as she pulls back to look at her. “I don’t know if we should …”

She’s heard it hit that particular pitch before, years ago, when she dared to ask if they could just kiss each other for real instead practicing for boys. Just like that night, even though Santana’s words are saying one thing, her body is saying another, leaning forward, despite herself. It’s been a long time since they’ve kissed each other, and it feels weird, like she’s forgotten how, like someone’s pressed reset on everything. This time, the kiss that happens isn’t nervous, and sloppy, it’s careful and tender. Santana closes the distance between them, holding her gaze, left hand coming to cradle her face before their lips brush; once, twice in time with the thumb that’s stroking her cheek.

“I changed my mind,” Santana whispers, reverent, when she pulls away a little. She remembers too.

“Let’s go inside,” she says, quietly, scrambling to her feet, and holding out her hand for Santana. Her heart leaps up into her throat, bobbing there, terrified she’ll be left hanging.

Santana smiles, her sweet half-smile, threading their fingers together, letting her lead the way. She squeezes Santana’s hand, just once – are you OK? – and Santana squeezes back, twice – yes – an old habit from when they became real girlfriends and Santana was still getting used to walking around holding hands instead of pinkys.

She fumbles with the keys in the door, gritting her teeth as she tries to force the key to turn right. Her heart’s speeding, and she’s nervous, which is silly, because they’ve done this hundreds of times. It feels different though, to all those other times. There’s no secrets, no half-truths (or half-lies). It’s just them, together. Brittany and Santana. Maybe that’s why she’s … afraid. They haven’t been that for too long.

“Here,” Santana says, voice low, from behind her. “I got it.”

Then, Santana’s hand covers hers, and they turn the key together. She can feel Santana behind her; body against hers, closer than they need to be really. Her whole body tenses with anticipation, fighting against the nerves of ‘will it still feel the same,’ ‘can they still do this?’ and ‘does she still want her?’ and the ache of want that settled months ago – hoping, dreaming, imagining the very thing that’s unfolding before her.

Santana is hers again.

The second they’re inside, and the door closes, alarm code punched in, something in her changes. Cocooned, and immediately warmer, now the world is shut out, her worry seems to go with it. Now, she has the good kind of energy surging in her, the kind that makes her feel crazy and dizzy and horny as hell. She needs Santana. She needs Santana naked in her bed and she needs her there _right_ now.

“Come here,” she calls. It’s almost a growl, and a devilish grin spreads across Santana’s face.

She pulls Santana toward her, and Santana’s arms slide around her waist, pulling her in. The world stops. They hover on the edge of a kiss, half teasing half timid; each watching the other to see who will give in first. Long seconds pass as her gaze flicks between Santana’s eyes and mouth, and then it happens. Santana’s tongue darts out to moisten dry lips, and she can’t take it anymore. She crushes her mouth against Santana’s, hard, and she swallows down Santana’s surprised little moan, dipping her tongue into Santana’s warm and perfect mouth.

They kiss, and kiss and kiss, hungry for each other; desperate to make up for lost time. As Santana walks them backwards towards the stairs, she wraps her arms around wrap around Santana’s neck, hands tugging in her hair, because _God_ she’s missed her, and she needs her to know it. When Santana tilts her head just so, she pushes forward, capturing Santana’s bottom lip between her own and sucking on it, keeping hold. It drives Santana nuts every single time, making her kiss all the harder when it’s released; heavy, deep, open-mouthed kisses that make her go all fuzzy and light headed, like TV playing nothing but white noise.

“B … ” Santana drawls, when she breaks away, head dipping a little and latching on to her neck, teeth nipping, “I missed this. So much.”

She can practically hear the want in Santana’s voice. It hits her somewhere low in her belly where only Santana can reach. She sighs a “yeah, me too,” in reply as their hands work; unbuttoning their coats and pulling away scarves and hats, balancing to zip off boots, reluctant to stop kissing for too long as they guide each other towards the stairs – too practiced and too familiar to bother looking where they’re going. Their progress is slow and clumsy, hastily clutching at material; trying and mostly failing to undo buttons and buckles. They’re barely half way up the stairs when she turns them both, sinking down on to the closest step and pulling Santana into her lap, hands sliding into the back pockets of Santana’s jeans, squeezing her ass, and bringing them closer still, so Santana’s straddling her, and there’s barely any part them that isn’t touching.

Santana mumbles something that sounds a lot like “Fuck Britt …” when they come up for air again, but she doesn’t have time to say anything, because Santana’s kissing her again – short, noisy little pecks now, that she can’t seem to get enough of. Santana’s hands cradling her face, and then sliding down her neck, dipping down to trace her collarbone. Her lips are starting to buzz, full of that bee stung feeling she always gets when they’ve kissed too much too fast. She can’t help it, Santana’s lips are delicious and full and more kissable than she ever thought possible.

Her fingers curl against the hem of Santana’s striped sweater, lifting it slightly, skimming up and under, finding more layers of cotton. A shirt, thin and crisp against her fingers, then, a t-shirt, maybe, or a vest underneath that. It’s softer, but not as soft as Santana’s skin. Whatever it is, she just needs it all off. She wants to feel Santana. _Her_ Santana, and nothing else, because there’s nothing better than when they’re skin to skin, tangled up in each other.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she states, frustrated, as she finally meets with actual skin, hands skimming up Santana’s stomach and ribs, pushing up the layers as far as they’ll go without actually taking anything off. Santana’s smooth and warm and everything she remembers, but somehow better than her imagination let her believe.

“C-cold out.” Santana replies, around a shuddering breath. It sounds like relief, but also like ‘it’s just like I wished it would be.’

“Not for long,” she murmurs, capturing Santana’s lips again in a rough kiss.

The stair tread presses into her back as Santana’s hips grind down against hers in response. It’ll probably leave a bruise, but she doesn’t much care, because the friction hits her just right, and Santana’s undone all the poppers on her shirt, tearing the last one in her haste – pretty blue pastel gingham, from JC Penney, she recalls, vaguely, when Santana breathes a “sorry” against her neck – and now Santana’s left hand is smoothing up her stomach, tracing vague patterns that make the muscles twitch every time. She’s not remotely sorry, about any of it, because Santana shifts down a step or two lower, pushing her back so she’s almost horizontal, and peels her shirt away and off completely, before peppering her chest with kisses, then burying that mouth fully in the valley between her breasts.

Just when she thinks it can’t get any better, it does, and Santana’s kissing all over, tongue flicking out every so often, delving under and over the lace of her bra, squeezing the breast she’s not kissing. Arching into Santana’s touch, her eyes drift closed, lost in the sensation. She’s forgotten how it feels to be wanted this much. Santana adores her, she’s always known that, deep down, but right now, she’s reminded of how much she desires her too. She can’t concentrate on anything but how good it feels, reaching and clutching blindly for anything Santana shaped to steady herself, right hand curling around Santana’s bicep, nails digging in.

“Oh…” is all she can manage, in a long half-moan, and Santana hums approval, reaching up to lift away her bra straps.

Her brain is stuck on the vague thought that Santana could just move lower instead, yank her jeans down and they’d just go at it, right here, on the stairs. She wouldn’t mind, because she needs Santana so much it’s getting painful – and it wouldn’t be the first time; one sultry smile from Santana and she was gone – but they also need to be somewhere a lot more comfortable, like her huge bed that seems twice as big when Santana’s not lying next to her in it.

“You missed it too, huh baby?” Santana asks, teasingly, as she slides back up her body, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. “I’m gonna make it up to you, I promise.”

She knows from the look in Santana’s eyes, the soft way those words are spoken, that she means it; that she’s never meant anything more, except for ‘I love you,’ but she hears that too, quiet, underneath. She always has.

This time, it’s Santana who reaches for her hand, wordlessly pulling her up and leading her toward the bedroom. They’re less giddy than before, the nerves have started to settle, but that other kind of tension – the satisfying kind she can’t describe with words – is still there. It flashes in Santana’s eyes when she smiles, fingertips tracing the waistband of her jeans. It peaks sharper in her belly when Santana pulls her in for a long kiss. They carry on this way, stop-go, stop-go, kissing for almost every step they take.

There’s a trail of clothes behind them, marking their zigzagged route. They’re just in the jeans now, and that’s still too many layers for her liking. She smiles when she realises that Santana wore her favourite bra and panties, from Victoria’s Secret, lacy and fiery red, bought just for her. The memory of it makes her surge forward, kissing harder as she turns them, pressing Santana into the wall, her leg between both of Santana’s. The contact makes them both groan. She pushes their joined hands above her head, so Santana has to stretch more to kiss her. It’s greedy and graceless, and she loves it, because Santana looks kind of wild. She’s usually so neat and glamorous, that she always pleasures in knowing it’s her fault that Santana’s hair is mussed up, her long-stay lipstick either smudged deliciously or kissed off completely. Tonight, it’s the latter.

She pops the button on Santana’s jeans, pulling them down her legs, agonisingly slow. Those bra and panties look even better than when Santana modelled them for her one late summer afternoon; playful and seductive all at once as she stalked toward the bed, climbing on and making her work for the kiss she’d been longing for all day.

Santana breathes a “Jesus,” when she drops to her knees, kissing Santana’s stomach, and a hand finds the back of her head, fingertips raking through her hair. Santana code that she wants more.

She’s tempted; really tempted to go down on Santana right now, because she can tell how much Santana wants her to. All she has to do is drop a few inches lower. After sweet lady kisses, it’s her favourite thing to do, because she gets to see Santana when she’s most vulnerable, most free, and most trusting. It makes her feel powerful. She’s missed that power as much as she’s missed Santana.

“I want you so bad,” she murmurs, hands stroking Santana’s hips and rounding her thighs as she licks a light trail from Santana’s navel to just underneath her breasts.

“You have me,” Santana replies, voice husky, thick with want, pulling her back up for another kiss, arms threading around her neck.

She doesn’t need any other encouragement, lifting Santana up, hands covering her ass and squeezing. Santana makes a low needy noise right into her mouth when she moves her hands, guiding Santana’s legs to wrap around her waist. They still fit the same, and she’s relieved, because she still feels that same crazy feeling all over her body when Santana’s skin touches hers, knowing its turning to gooseflesh at the sensation.

Their kisses slow as they negotiate the doorway, and Santana reaches back, pushing it closed again. She backs her against it almost immediately, swallowing down the “ouch” that comes from Santana at making contact with the wood, soothing her with slower, softer kisses; her hips rocking, just enough to tease in the way that Santana likes. This is muscle memory, drawn from too many free periods full of sweet lady kisses pressed up against each other just like this in Mr Kidney’s janitor’s closet, emerging flushed and breathless when the bell rang.

“Bed. Now.” Santana orders, as she dots kisses along her jawline, paying extra attention to that sensitive spot just under her ear. She shivers at it, and Santana makes an amused little sound against her skin.

She takes a little more care when she drops Santana down this time, cradling her head to cushion her landing, even though the bed is the super soft and springy – and _how_ they’ve tested those springs, well beyond the day they jumped around on it like it was a trampoline when they picked it out at the huge store at the mall. She didn’t know then, because she was barely fourteen, that she’d end up having pretty much the most amazing sex all over it and in it, and none of that amazingness would be from silly boys, but from her best friend in the whole world. A girl who she loves more than anything, and who’s never looked more beautiful than she does right now, her hair fanned out on the mattress, gazing up at her adoringly.

If she’d known this would happen, she would’ve lit lots of those candles her mom buys from Sheets N’ Things and put a big heart in rose petals on the bed, because Santana’s secretly a hopeless romantic, and loves stuff like that.

“Sorry this is my room’s such a mess, I wasn’t expecting …” she admits, knowing what to else say, snatching up clothes and sweeping them away as best she can.

Not exactly sexy.

The mood feels like it’s gone now. They don’t show this part in movies. Especially not those movies she used to watch with Puck and Santana sometimes on his laptop while they smoked that stuff he calls Lady Chronic that made her feel all fluid and relaxed; and Santana looked that way too, letting her touch and kiss like she never usually would in front of Puck.

“I’m not really worried about that right now…” Santana says, chuckling a little as she frees a t-shirt that she’s been lying on. “I really don’t care.” Resting back on her elbows, Santana drinks in her every move, “but it’s sweet that you do.”

“Sorry,” she repeats, blushing as she shimmies out her jeans, self-conscious because Santana’s watching her and it feels strange because she’s been without her for so long.

She throws the last of her clothes off the bed anyway, and one of her shirts lands on the lamp on her nightstand, casting the whole room in this warm, orange glow, so it looks like sunset and sunrise at once. It’s kind of perfect. She wants this to be perfect. This part of being with Santana, of being Santana’s, has never been difficult, even when they were experimenting and didn’t really know what they were doing, but did know that what they were doing felt good.

“Setting the mood, huh?” Santana smirks, arching an eyebrow. “Sweet,” that’s softer, almost like she didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“Oh,” she says, suddenly realising that Santana might not want lights on at all – she never used to, in the beginning – scrambling across the bed toward the lamp. “I’ll turn it off,” she’s flustered and thinking too much and that’s usually Santana’s habit.

“No,” Santana says, soft, reaching over to press a kiss to her cheek. “Don’t.”

The only good thing is it means she can see Santana; trace her every line with her fingertips, kiss every inch of her skin; finding easily all the spots that make her shudder and squirm, until her name slips out of Santana’s mouth like something foreign and new, made from a different sound than the syllables usually make. All at once, Santana is behind her, on her knees, one arm wrapped around her waist, hand resting on her stomach, while the other sweeps her hair out of the way to kiss her neck, then her shoulders, deliberate and careful.

“Just relax, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

Suddenly, she’s not so embarrassed, because Santana’s talking to her in that low, sexy voice that drives her nuts, and Santana knows it too.

Santana’s hands slide up, cupping both her breasts, thumbing over her nipples. “I want to see you. I want to see us.” She reaches behind, easily flicking the clasp of her bra and taking it off; thrown somewhere she can’t see. Then, Santana’s back, right against her; hands back on her, curling and grabbing, tweaking her nipples, just how she likes. It feels new and exciting because it’s been so long, _too_ long since they’ve been like this, but there’s something achingly familiar about it too, because Santana knows everything of her, knows exactly how to touch and where, and it’s completely different to when she’s laid there in the dead of night, touching herself, eyes screwed shut, wishing it was Santana.

Now she doesn’t have to wish.

She arches into Santana’s touch, shifting to mirror her, dropping a little so Santana can still reach where she wants to. Right now, she’s hoping that’s everywhere, twice over. Steadying herself, she reaches back, clutching at Santana’s thighs; her brain short-circuiting when Santana moans as she grinds backwards. Santana’s left hand cups between her legs, stroking over the cotton of her panties. It’s barely anything really, merest hint of something more. She’s usually the one to do this, kneeling behind Santana, watching them in the mirror as she strokes her, sucking on her neck hard enough to leave marks; transfixed as Santana’s hips rock back and up at once, craving more contact with her. Now, Santana’s in control, and it’s nowhere near as frenzied. Santana kisses her feather light; strokes slow and even. The only pressure comes from how tight Santana holds her, like she never wants to let her go again. Right now, Santana’s the only thing keeping her upright.

“You like that?” There’s a hint of teasing in Santana’s voice, and for a second, she can’t breathe.

“Yes,” she answers, somehow, surprised by how rough her own voice sounds. “Yes.”

“You’re fucking beautiful. So very beautiful,” Santana whispers, right in her ear. From the edge in her voice, she knows it’s because Santana’s watching them in the mirror, seeing everything she can’t otherwise. “So hot … God Britt.”

At the thought of imagining what Santana’s looking at, she floods. Santana must be able to feel it. Her breath catches, short and sharp, and she makes some sort of strangled noise – it was a whole sentence that died on the journey from her brain to her mouth – and she reaches around to cup the back Santana’s head, kissing briefly, hungrily, at a less than comfortable angle, but she just needs to feel more of Santana. It’s silly, since they’re so close together, and there’s not much left to feel. When they break apart, she lets out a shuddering breath, bottom lip caught between her teeth, biting down hard on it, because Santana just _knows_ what she needs – she always has – picking up pace, hand dipping into her panties, drawing quick tight circles on her clit.

“Fuck,” she hisses, head lolling back, groaning as she bucks shamelessly into Santana’s hand; fingertips sliding back and forth in a rhythm that only Santana can find. Each time, those fingers edge close to, but never actually go inside of her.

“Yeah,” Santana purrs, leaning into her more, giving more, hearing the need in her. “That’s my girl.”

So she pushes back, hoping the friction does something, feeling selfish, because Santana’s giving her all this attention – really good attention – getting barely anything in return. She reaches down, putting her hand over Santana’s, trying to still it, even though her body’s craving more.

Not yet. Not yet. She’s not ready.

The second Santana goes there, she’ll come, and come hard, she can feel it starting to build, and she wants to wait. She _needs_ to wait. She wants more now. It used to be about snuck moments, getting each other off, rutting, sweaty, and breathless; but now she knows there’s more. She wants slow and drawn out, until her whole body is humming with pleasure, Santana pressed flush to her, clinging on tight, beautiful and fragile, and perfect and hers. She always told Santana it was better with feelings, and the feelings haven’t left since then, but she wants to remind her of that, just in case.

“Wait … wait. I want …” she says, breathlessly, still rocking a little against Santana’s fingers. They’re barely moving, but she can’t help herself.

“Tell me,” Santana replies, hushed, drawing her hand away and moving back. “What is it?. What do you want, baby?”

She swallows hard, unsteady as she turns around to face her.

“Are you OK? You still want this, right? You want us?” Santana asks, concerned, questions tumbling out quickly when she doesn’t reply, touching a hand to her cheek.

It’s so tender that she feels like crying, but manages not to. And there it is. The feeling she’s missed ever since Santana left: that she’s precious, that she matters. That this means more than anyone will ever know.

“You. I want you … I want to touch you … all of you.”

Santana tilts her head, and she can see tears in her eyes – happy tears, she’s sure - mouth quirking into a small smile before she scoots forward to close the distance between them, leaning in to kiss her. It’s a light mouse kiss, but more intimate than anything, maybe ever.

“I’m yours.”

“Proudly so,” she replies, hearing Santana let out a quiet gasp at it.

They’re so far from those scared girls now, but she still feels close to that version of them too. Wordlessly, Santana reaches behind, undoing her own bra. She watches, fascinated as it slides off and Santana tosses it to the floor. She’s seen Santana naked hundreds of times, but it feels different, like she’s seeing her for the very first time, when they sat on this bed, years ago, in almost the same position. Except, this time, she’s not terrified Santana will freak out and run away the second she tries to touch her. This time, Santana moves toward her, instead of away, offering herself. She dips her head, scattering kisses over Santana’s breasts, tongue swirling around each nipple and pressing down, sucking hard, just how Santana loves, while her hands skim down Santana’s sides, coming to rest on her thighs, stroking vague patterns, because she just needs to touch her.

Santana pulls back to look at her, tracing the shape of her mouth with the pad of her thumb before kissing her again, long and deep. She thinks that maybe Santana’s saying things with the way her tongue strokes in her mouth; like when she used to say everything in Spanish because then she wouldn’t understand and Santana could keep it secret – “bésame,” “ay, ¡Dios mío,” “Te amo.” She learned fast, searching out the words in the huge dictionary Mr Schue keeps at the back of his classroom.

It used to sound like a confession whenever she said something to her like that, but now it’s just pure feeling. It’s not that she believes her less when Santana says it in English, but the Spanish is somehow more special, more sacred, like her heart really _is_ speaking.

Santana turns her head a little away, breaking for air, and she wants to keep this image in her head forever: Santana, hovering above her, studying her face, looking at her like she’s the most special thing in the world. Then, she leans up, expecting another kiss, but all that comes is Santana’s breath, hot against her skin; and quiet, pretty words that make her shiver.

“Cada momento contigo es lo más importante de mi vida.”

She gets every other word, but just from the way it sounds, falling softly from Santana’s lips, but heavy with emotion, she knows it’s important. All the while, Santana’s eyes never leave her, her bottom lip wobbling as she tries not to cry. This isn’t a confession, it’s a truth. Then, Santana says something she’s known the meaning of for a long time, punctuated with yet more kisses that get longer each time.

“Te amo … Te amo … Te amo.”

Santana moans into her mouth when she flips them over, not breaking their kiss once. She could tell Santana she loves her, but she wants to show her. She kisses lighter this time, barely pressing at all; smoothing a slow trail down Santana’s stomach with her hands at the same time. All the while, Santana’s hips roll up toward her, desperate for more. Resting back, she keeps her eyes on Santana, watching her fight to keep her eyes open when she rounds her hips, nails scratching because she knows Santana likes it. It takes all the will in the world not to smile when she hears Santana’s breathing change, hitching briefly, the moment her fingers hook on to Santana’s panties; hips lifting to help her before she’s even glanced upwards to see the expression on Santana’s face.

She can’t help that she wastes long moments just looking at Santana once those panties are gone. It never gets old, seeing Santana naked; because she’s sexy and beautiful and achingly pretty all at once, legs spreading just for her; waiting, wanting. It’s another thing she’s missed. The sight stirs things in her no one else can. Usually, she’d tease about her lack of patience, but she can tell how much Santana wants this, no, _needs_ this, looking desperately turned on; all lustful eyes focussed on nothing but her.

Santana has this habit of denying herself things when she thinks she’s done wrong, so she knows it’s properly been a while since she’s touched herself. She settles between Santana’s legs, and she practically hears the sigh of relief. She’s not purposefully making Santana wait, but purposefully showing she cares, brushing her mouth carefully over the inside of Santana’s thighs, stroking the leg she isn’t kissing. It’s a habit; because she used to have to edge Santana toward this, to make her comfortable, because anything but this would make her freak out, but now she just wants to make sure that first real touch is the one Santana loses it over, and not all the rest. Sure enough, the second her mouth and her tongue meets with hot and deliciously wet folds, Santana just about dies. She’s barely doing anything, things that would be innocent if she were kissing her on the mouth, but it’s doing more than she thought. A sharp hiss of a breath escapes, and a hand flies to the back of her head threading through layers of her hair, twisting slightly, urging her deeper.

“Oh … that’s so _fucking_ … good …” Santana struggles to say as she exhales, laughing a little to herself.

She hums in agreement, revelling in the taste of her; already beginning to forget just how good it is to be with her like this, longing to make it like it’s always been. Even when things were really bad – us-against-the-world-and-everyone-else-in-the-solar-system-too-kind of bad – the sex was always really, _really_ good. If they can’t make that work, they’ve got no chance at anything else. She moves closer, ready to devour her, unashamed and determined as she hooks her arms around Santana’s legs to hold her steady, palms flat on Santana’s stomach, because she loves feeling it when her muscles start to tighten, proud, because she’s the reason why.

There’s other groan when she purses her lips around Santana’s clit, taking it into her mouth fully, sucking and teasing and swirling her tongue experimentally, just to see whether Santana likes all the things she’s been thinking about during these long nights without her. She focuses entirely on Santana’s pleasure, listening for every tiny sound, waiting for the slightest shift of her body. She knows Santana’s tells by now as well as she knows herself. Santana wants more, and she’s going to give it. When she changes pace, lapping at her clit, and then her entire length with broad, flat strokes of her tongue, faster and a faster, the tugging on her hair is more insistent, Santana’s breaths growing ragged, hips rising to meet her.

“Oh _fuck_ … more … _Please_.”

Santana’s always the one for dirty talk; the pretty girl with the potty mouth, and _God_ if she doesn’t love it when Santana lets go like this and surrenders herself completely. It’s ridiculously sexy. All the encouragement just makes her go faster and press harder; sucking and teasing at Santana’s folds, hand ghosting downward to trace their shape. Santana’s so nearly there. Her own hips roll into the mattress, wanting for some kind of friction, because she’s achingly close too. She’s come before to the sound of Santana alone, because something about the raspy edge to her voice that turns her on even more than Victoria’s Secret. It feels like it might just happen again if things carry on as they are, and she wouldn’t really mind. She can feel Santana’s eyes on her, so she grinds harder, moaning against her.

“Baby … c’mere …” Santana says, low and desperate, grabbing for her hand.

She knows what that means too. Santana wants it to feel good for her too, but more than that, Santana wants to watch when she comes.

Their mouths crush together at an odd angle when Santana grabs hold of the back of her head pulling her closer, groaning into her mouth because she can taste herself. Santana reaches down, cupping her ass, hands sliding under her panties and squeezing more.

“Take them off,” she murmurs, against Santana’s lips. “Take them off.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” Santana replies, sweetly, voice still full of that roughness that makes her crazy. “I will.”

She giggles in surprise when Santana flips them over unceremoniously, mouth and tongue running the length of her torso before leaning back, motioning for her to lift her hips. Then, her panties are gone in one swift tug, and Santana’s back, hands smoothing down her legs, spreading them as she goes.

“You’re perfect, B. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect,” Santana says, awed, as she repeats her path in reverse, so they’re level with each other again. Her every word is punctuated with a gentle kiss.

She wants to shake her head, to argue, because that’s Santana to her, but she doesn’t have time to think, because Santana pulls her further down the bed, straddling her, gripping the back of her thighs, wrapping her legs around her waist. She lets out a soft gasp at the contact. Then, Santana’s hands settle either side of her head, fingers toying with her hair, and they just kiss for a while; heavy and wet and glorious, until she can’t tell who is kissing who first or where one kiss ends and the next begins. It makes her remember why they’ve lost so many hours to this, and just this, for so long.

All the while, Santana’s hips roll against hers, circling, off pace, and it feels really good – the tension in her belly is mounting again, just right – but it’s not enough, she wants more. Her hands grab Santana’s ass, pressing her closer, grinding up when Santana grinds down, and they get into a rhythm that’s easy and familiar. Her world shrinks to nothing but Santana. The kisses stop now, but Santana’s mouth hovers millimetres away from hers, gaping a fraction so they’re kissing without really kissing; holding back every time one of them is close enough.

In the end, it’s like they’re sharing air instead. One person instead of two.

The only thing she can hear is the sound of their breathing, growing heavy and laboured; the sound of skin on skin as their bodies connect faster and faster, and she clings on to Santana tight, grasping at her shoulders, fighting to keep her eyes open and drink in every detail on her face.

“Don’t stop … Don’t stop …” she pleads, desperate.

She loses grip on the world completely soon after when Santana shifts, and there’s a hand skating down her belly, sandwiched between them both. Without warning, Santana slides two fingers inside of her; in and out in and out, fast, thumb swiping over her clit. At that, she lets out a low moan, sounding strange and not at all like herself, as if Santana’s drawing it from some secret place she didn’t know existed. Then, Santana’s fingers curl upwards, pressing tight against her. The intensity of it tips her over the edge, and she cries out, arching up into her. She feels it everywhere; waves after wave of pleasure hitting her, as she rides Santana’s fingers; again, and again and again, saying Santana’s name until it’s nothing but a whisper. She can’t get enough.

“Breathe, baby. Breathe,” Santana whispers, shakily in her ear, easing her down slow with softer, lighter touches. Santana’s hips still move a little against her, chasing friction.

She lets go of a long breath she didn’t even know she was holding.

Their lips brush together every so often, kissing lazily, until Santana buries her head into her into her neck. She tilts her head back to give her more room, eyes closing when Santana starts to kiss her there; teeth grazing, and sucking hard enough to leave a mark. Santana’s desperate now, thrusting harder and harder. She matches it, moving to press her thigh between Santana’s legs, knowing she won’t need much else. She loves this moment; these last few seconds before Santana comes, when she unravels completely before her eyes. It isn’t long until Santana lets out a throaty moan – a jumble of curse words and her name, all mixed together with staccato breaths – collapsing against her, breathless and shaking in her arms.

_I will always love you the most._

She sighs contentedly.

Lying here wrapped up in Santana as they both recover, stroking her hair and kissing whenever they feel like it, tasting salt and sweat and something she’s never found a name for; is her kind of perfect. It doesn’t matter that the sheets are all twisted and the duvet’s more on the floor than over them, all that matters is she has Santana back. Secretly, this has always been her favourite part, when it’s quiet enough to hear the steady beating of her heart, and maybe Santana’s too. Her limbs feel like jelly, and they’re still both drunk with the bliss of it all; comfortable, relaxed and happy beyond words. She wants them to stay like this always, and for every day as long as she lives to end just like this one; all soft touches and sweet smiles and Eskimo kisses. She doesn’t need anyone or anything else.

Weeks from now when she wakes up alone, her room bathed in the weak light of a another new day, and Santana’s further away than she’s ever been, the memory of this night will keep her closer than the miles between them say.

She doesn’t know what the future holds, but she does know that they’ll share that future together.

***

 **Post Script:** The Spanish phrase Santana whispers to Brittany translates as "Every moment with you is the most important of my life."


End file.
